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For a brilliant man, it must have been extremely difficult to have every move scrutinized. The once competitive ballroom dancer had been reduced to a follower, while I led in a closed position—a stance of tight control where I guided with verbal cues and hand pressure—Matt simply tried to keep his feet beneath him. But as his skill set and awareness grew, so did his desire for autonomy—that grip started to chafe. A new kind of tension emerged, and the dance was no longer a smooth glide but a series of stepped-on toes.
It was a psychological tug-of-war. Matt was striving to feel like a self-sufficient adult, while I was still in "commander-in-chief" mode, trying to squeeze out every bit of potential. If I corrected a word or a chore, he might grow loud and adamantly push back. The best path forward was to gradually transition from a full-time drill sergeant to a partner in a duet—a team—and, in time, trusting Matt to take the lead. We reached a "peace treaty": I promised to soften my lead, and he agreed to tone down his reactions. It became a mutual negotiation of patience—a loosening of the frame to allow for a more natural rhythm.
Still, the "solo" sections of this dance couldn’t be mastered overnight; the practice was relentless. Some days, the monotony of the rehearsal felt like a physical weight. We reminded ourselves that without this repetitiveness, we risked stagnation. The kitchen became our primary studio for new techniques and maneuvers. By February 2020, "Chef Matthew" was emerging, moving from the "hand-holding" simplicity of tea and hot dogs to more complicated endeavors.
One night, Matt attempted to take the lead, choosing a favorite recipe: Albondigas Tacos. It was a marathon of roasting and pureeing that lasted ninety minutes. Here, I faced the "really?" factor—the cognitive inconsistency of TBI. I assumed that because Matt had measured with a tablespoon on Tuesday, he could do the same on Thursday. But for him, staying present and focused for an extended period was an endurance test; a reminder that doing something once is not the same as hard-wiring the choreography. Matt didn't just need to learn; he needed to over-learn. It took immense determination for me to pull back, hold my tongue, and let him find his own footing in the kitchen.
The prospect of resuming his old hobby of home-brewing was another miscalculation of when to yield the lead. Unlike a mamma bird, I had kicked Matt out of the nest too soon. The process began in January 2020, and I quickly found myself in over my head. Matt was more than 'foggy' on the details that day; he was detached. His lack of enthusiasm was a heartbreaking contrast to the pride he once took in his brews. His silence left me scrabbling to coordinate long-distance calls with his siblings just to keep the fermentation on track. While I handled the boiling kettle and the scalding 'wort’, Matt finally stepped in with the ice bath and added the yeast. After the final big haul—carrying the slippery, heavy carboy to the basement—I was ready for an ice-cold beer myself.
Fortuitously, by March, Matt’s 'hand contact' returned. He did a masterful job bottling the brew, sitting on a stool and rhythmically filling forty-eight bottles. My role shifted to his assistant: feeding him empties and mopping spills, while Matt, with a bit of his old flair, 'easy-peasy' capped each one. The beer itself turned out only 'so-so,' but the flavor was irrelevant. The victory was in the clarity—the chick had stayed in the air and made the landing.
We saw this same progression in the mundane upkeep of the home. Months ago, Matt was a follower who needed a guide even for his laundry; now, he performed the ultimate freestyle—from negotiating the steep descent with a heavy basket to the final, precise fold. While cleaning the house, once I pointed out the supplies, 'autopilot' kicked in—Matt cleaned the bathroom without a single prompt. In that moment, I felt a surge of acute relief—a glimpse into a future where the heavy load of caregiving might finally settle into the simple, beautiful rhythm of family life.
Our work extended outdoors, where the tasks shifted with the seasons. In the spring and summer, Matt took on the physical demands of the yard—occasionally mowing the lawn and moving heavy patio blocks—while also tending to the delicate, fine-motor work of planting snap peas and jalapeños. By winter, he was recruited to clear snow off the cars and handle light shoveling. These chores were a nice expansion of the changing terrain of a physical life.
Community integration moved the "testing ground" to the local grocery store—a busy, unpredictable environment full of obstacles and people. As he navigated the aisles, Matt used the shopping cart like a makeshift walker for stability. Searching for an item on a shelf was deceptively complex; it required filtering a sea of visual stimuli while maintaining balance and holding the 'mission' in mind. My role was to point him in the right direction or, if he stumbled, to narrow his focus to a specific shelf without taking over the dance entirely.
Never one to be left flat-footed, I was already looking toward the horizon—volunteer opportunities at the church food pantry and beyond. From survival to revival, we were building the functional skills he would need to eventually fly solo. As I slowly stepped back, yielding the lead more and more, I finally began to see my son standing on his own two feet. We often commemorated this newfound independence with a trip to Juicy Burger.
Juicy Burger was a lip-smacking, smile-provoking, exhilarating treat for a job well done. Whether we were peeling away layers of loss, surmounting mammoth mental struggles, or simply needed a break from the unrelenting climb, we always found a reason to celebrate. Juicy Burger gift cards were the most coveted treasures in our Christmas stockings—a reward for not succumbing to dejection. Matt always ordered his burger medium-well, dressed with pepper-jack cheese, jalapeños, and sweet Thai chili, accompanied by the most amazing sweet potato fries ever. I favored blue cheese and roasted red peppers. In those moments, life, as it is meant to be, joined our table to welcome us back.
Unbeknownst to Matt, even this guilty pleasure was laced with the invisible threads of rehab. The work began the moment we left the car: scanning the menu, projecting his voice to place an order to a stranger, and moving through the small space to the beverage station. Balancing the messy, two-handed grip of a dripping burger without disaster was a lesson in dexterity. In truth, Matt’s work was never finished—but when the effort was cloaked in savory pepper-jack and sweet potato fries, it felt like a reprieve rather than a chore. The leader was finding his stride, and the mother bird watched in awe to see how far he might soar.
© 2026, Sarah Watkins
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