Built from the
inside out.

My first concussion was at twelve years old. Back then, no one really talked about it, long before the internet made information accessible. By the time I was thirty, I'd had six. Sports, car accidents, life. Each one quietly accumulating.

Then in 2015, everything changed. I went out for a casual game of football and woke up to a reality I didn't recognise. The next eighteen months were some of the hardest of my life, relearning to talk properly, intensive physiotherapy, therapy of every kind, and the slow, exhausting climb back to work.

Then in 2017, I went to lunch with a friend. A heavy metal outdoor umbrella pole fell on my head. The physical damage to my neck was significant, but the psychological weight was something else entirely. And in 2022, another car accident. Total concussions: eight.

Before 2015 I had a clear sense of who I was. A career I was proud of, my son, a solid group of people around me. My identity was tied up in being a capable mother, a driven professional. When that capacity was suddenly gone, it wasn't just disorienting. It was grief. It took nine years to get a permanent injury diagnosis. At my lowest point, I didn't want to be here anymore.

But in 2017 I met my husband and became a stepmum. Slowly, a new version of life took shape, different from before, but fuller in ways I didn't expect. I've come to see my concussions less as things that happened to me, and more as brutal, unwanted wake-up calls that cracked me open.

I'm now studying a postgraduate diploma in counselling. I work in engagement and communications. I create. I renovate. I keep going. I'll always be chasing another percentage better. That's just who I am.