Spring bids winter farewell and gently kisses summer’s cheek, which passes its waning heat to autumn, whose colors fade into winter’s cold. Recapturing familiar seasonal pleasures and routines was a reassuring ballast against the unpredictable beat of Matt’s future. The many questions about if, when, and how things could be managed had been satisfactorily answered. From the garden to the kitchen, from the beaches to the Island, from the table to the yard—these treasured activities had reclaimed their rightful place in life’s ebb and flow. In his fourth year, we greedily turned more attention outward, grateful that pandemic restrictions were gradually receding.

About fifteen months earlier, when his communication skills were still extremely limited, Matt accepted an offer from an acquaintance of Megan’s to be a texting pen pal. They had written back and forth intermittently—on again, off again—but never for a long stretch. Recently, I encouraged him to touch base with her again, but I hadn’t expected what came next. Not immediately, but after a while, he nonchalantly set up a Zoom call to reconnect without my knowledge, bypassing the original texting platform. The face-to-face interaction lent itself to more natural, pleasant exchanges, and for a period he followed up with her until it fell off the radar again.

Yet finding his true social stride meant discovering people who truly related to his journey. Now was a prime opportunity to act on Pop Pop’s gentle but firm admonishment that we weren’t doing enough to help him build a local circle of peers. Having lived away from Saratoga Springs for nineteen years, Matt essentially lacked a local social network. Answering our prayers, my Facebook query led to one fellow TBI survivor, followed by four more who shared a forward-looking mindset. Soon, via phone and Zoom, his reach expanded to include high school friends and a former dance partner. Whether reminiscing or sharing new life updates, these exchanges provided a natural training ground to sharpen his pragmatic communication skills—mastering eye contact, turn-taking, and the fine art of active listening.

Matt tried a couple of support groups, but labored to relate to members with significantly greater residual deficits. That changed when he joined the Capital District Brain Injury Support Group in February 2021. For the first time, Matt met peers at his exact stage of recovery—friendly, welcoming, fun-loving individuals who periodically touched base to let their hair down, acknowledge what they had lost, and look for ways to make the most of where they were. Connecting with fellow survivors like Shridar for "computer geek" Zoom calls, or meeting with Jay, another TBI survivor who shared a similar timeline, reinforced that he wasn’t alone. There was an undeniable, silent relief in being understood without explanation—a comfort that extended to the caregivers as well, as I discovered when I began attending the Brain Injury Association (BIANY) support group meetings.

The travel kept building momentum. As UB alumni, we assembled at a University at Buffalo football game to soak in the welcoming energy of campus, noting what had shifted and what remained comfortingly the same. From there, we turned toward the Finger Lakes for a planned stop at Fulkerson Winery on Seneca Lake, where Matt picked up a pail of Gewürztraminer grape juice for his next homebrewing project.

By late 2021, Matt’s social calendar was clearly picking up, anchored by two newly formed game groups. The first brought together five individuals with a history of TBI, stroke, or learning disabilities, along with their caregivers, for monthly afternoons of laughter and competitive Uno. The second was an intimate two-man game group with a new acquaintance, Sean. With only the two of them at the table, Matt couldn't retreat into the background; he had to hold up his end of the dialogue. On one occasion, since Sean didn’t know Ticket to Ride, Matt had to explain the rules—which he did in his own delightfully circuitous way. It was wonderful to see genuine camaraderie taking root across both groups.

The cumulative impact of these many small, structured gatherings laid the groundwork for an astonishing public breakthrough. At a Friday happy hour with my work colleagues, Matt didn't just watch the goings-on. He leaned into the conversation, listening intently and smiling as people came over to greet him. When Tom, one of Matt’s former therapists—who hadn't seen him in ten months—sat down beside him, the two launched into an animated, thirty- to forty-minute talk. Over the roar of the bar, Matt gestured passionately as they talked about homebrewing, past jobs, and places he had lived. Tom was blown away by how expressive Matt had become compared with his reserved clinic days. Matt had never been a socialite. Even now in recovery, chatting with acquaintances was a steep uphill climb—so seeing him hold his own in a noisy room with a relative stranger made me secretly want to do an impromptu happy dance right there at the bar.

That burgeoning confidence began to ripple through every corner of his daily life. After church services—where Matt would once have made a beeline for the car—he now stood comfortably in the back, smiling and shaking hands with seven or eight parishioners who came over to congratulate him on his progress. Even his inner perspective was evolving; reflecting on his journey, Matt expressed newfound empathy and patience for students who struggle to succeed, and voiced a desire to eventually design teaching strategies to improve their odds. Step by step, the quiet observer was spreading his wings, ready to soar.

© 2026, Sarah Watkins