To this day, I still don’t remember the car accident that changed my life. It was Thursday, August 8, 2024, a day like any other. I had gone to my local gym for an afternoon conditioning class. I finished hot and sweaty, grabbed my things, and walked toward the door. That’s the last thing I remember.

The next thing I’m aware of, I’m in a hospital bed, mid-conversation with a doctor. “Wait. What’s going on right now?” I asked. He smiled. “I think you’re finally back with us.” Everything in between had to be reconstructed from other people. The working theory: I left the gym overheated, got into my car, and started the short drive home. Somewhere along the way, my body overheated. I lost consciousness and drove into a tree.

I don’t remember the crash, the ambulance, or being admitted to the hospital. What I do remember is confusion, and being told I had been asking the same questions over and over. “Where am I? What happened?” They would answer. Fifteen minutes later, I’d ask again.

Meanwhile, I had effectively disappeared. I didn’t have my phone or my glasses. When the nurses asked if I wanted to contact my family, I realized I didn’t know anyone’s number by heart except my parents’ landline, from 15 years ago. Everything else was locked inside a phone sitting in a wrecked car somewhere.

At the same time, my coworkers noticed I had missed meetings and stopped responding to emails. My manager contacted my brother. He went to my house, saw my car was gone, and realized something was wrong. My family started calling hospitals.

About a day after the accident, a nurse told me my dad had found me. My parents came to the hospital, and I was discharged soon after. Other than bruising and scrapes, everything appeared fine.

The next day, we found my car at an impound lot. It was totaled (airbags deployed, front end crushed, the steering column pushed back). I had been wearing my seatbelt. Standing there, looking at it, I had no memory of how I got there. And then, somehow, life moved on. I went back to work. Replaced my glasses. Aside from some inconvenience, everything seemed normal.

Until it didn’t.

About six weeks later, I started noticing subtle changes. My balance was off. I couldn’t walk in a straight line. I bumped into things, spilled simple items, and felt like I was thinking through wet concrete. My gait slowed into a shuffle. I explained it away. Fatigue. Stress. Recovery.

One morning, I went for a walk on a trail I knew well and couldn’t make it very far. I kept veering to the left. My head throbbed. It took real effort just to get home.

Still, I told myself it was nothing. What finally broke through was an email at work. A simple one. Something that should have taken seconds to answer. I sat there staring at my keyboard, concentrating as hard as I could, trying to hit a single letter. That’s when I knew something was wrong.

My doctor ordered a CT scan but told me not to wait if things worsened. A few days later, I felt bad enough that I called my dad and asked him to drive me to get the scan. The scan set everything in motion. I was transferred by ambulance to a larger hospital. A paramedic, sensing my anxiety, put a hand on my arm and said, “You’re going to get great care.”

The CT scan had revealed two large subdural hematomas, slow brain bleeds on both sides of my brain. One was already shifting things out of place. Surgery was scheduled within 24 hours.

That night, the nurses checked on me constantly, asking the same orientation questions over and over. At some point in the early morning, the weight of everything hit me. One of the nurses noticed and sat with me, talking me through it. That moment stayed with me. The next morning, during another round of questions, I answered my date of birth and then paused. “Today’s actually my birthday,” I said. “And I’m having brain surgery.” She stopped. “You’re right. Happy birthday.” Later, she came back with a slice of cake and taped balloons on the whiteboard. A small, human gesture in the middle of something heavy. I won’t forget it.

Surgery happened sooner than expected. In the operating room, the team introduced themselves. My surgeon walked me through the plan and told me, “We’ve got this.” That’s the last thing I remember before the anesthesia.

When I woke up, I was back in my room. My parents were there. I wasn’t in pain, but my head felt tight. The surgery involved removing sections of my skull, draining the hematomas, and securing everything back in place with titanium hardware. Within a day, they had me up and walking. Almost immediately, I noticed a difference. My balance was better. The shuffling was gone.

I was discharged a few days later and moved in with my parents for six weeks. Recovery was steady but slow. Physical therapy focused on rebuilding balance and coordination. Simple exercises required full concentration. Progress came in small increments, but it came.

There were setbacks, too. A few months later, I had what I thought was a medical issue while driving (lightheadedness, tingling). It turned out to be a panic attack. I was later diagnosed with anxiety and PTSD related to the accident. Therapy and, eventually, medication helped. For a while, I relied on others, and rideshares, to get around.

I returned to work after about two months. At a follow-up appointment, I mentioned ongoing sensory issues, especially with light. My doctor told me it was normal after brain surgery and could take time to resolve.

I’m now about a year and a half removed from that surgery. Some things still haven’t fully returned to normal. Bright lights can feel overwhelming. Certain sounds hit harder than they should. I’ve adjusted: sunglasses, earplugs, small accommodations that make a difference. Most days, though, I feel like myself again. I walk several miles a day. I’m back in the gym. Life feels steady.

But there are moments that stay with you. My birthday the following year, the anniversary of the surgery, was harder than I expected. I didn’t want to celebrate. I just wanted the day to pass quietly. It took some time, and some help, to understand why.

I’m not exactly where I was before August 8, 2024. But I’m close. And I’m still moving forward. What I didn’t understand before this experience is that a brain injury doesn’t always show up right away. Symptoms can be delayed, subtle, and easy to dismiss, until they’re not.

I also learned how disorienting it is to navigate the health care system without memory, context, or even basic information. The system worked. But it relied heavily on timing, persistence, and the people around me.

If there’s one takeaway, it’s this: If something feels off after a head injury, even weeks later, pay attention. Because sometimes, the most serious injuries are the ones you don’t see coming.

Wick Davis is a patient advocate.