It was so much easier when Matt simply did everything asked of him—no questioning, no debating, no resisting. Now we were caught in a vicious cycle of "why," followed by forceful outbursts that discredited our authority or bemoaned his loss of governance and free will.

When journaling his earliest memories with Kathy, Matt had begrudgingly acknowledged that doing unwanted rehab tasks was ultimately good for him. However, after two and a half years in the trenches, that logical acceptance began to wear thin. Because he had always been able to grasp this concept in the past, Mike and I either failed to perceive the storm brewing on the horizon or simply chose to ignore it—perhaps because we were so confident we knew best. And after all the countless times Matt had thanked me for keeping him alive, for being there for him, along with the crushing hugs and wide-armed "I love you this much" that regularly passed between us, I was easily convinced that everything was okay.

Gradually, Matt began to push back, requesting and later demanding that we justify our rationale. Initially, he accepted our explanations graciously, but progressively less so. To manage this shift, we turned to his journal. Over time, its purpose expanded far beyond a simple time capsule of daily activities, vacations, and interesting events. In one case, we used this format to give him a concrete, written reference for conversations with unfamiliar people, specifically with individuals who had also experienced a traumatic brain injury (TBI). After pleasant conversations in which they shared their stories, struggles, and successes, Matt would journal the details to use as a brain tickler before their next get-together. It naturally grew from a few brief comments into more in-depth reviews and summaries, adapted to various opportunities and needs as they arose, and, fortuitously, was well-positioned for the current unrest on the home front.

Now, facing unpredictable mood swings, we encouraged Matt to use his journal to express his raw feelings. Once, he wrote a touching summary of all that he had lost: his job, his house, his friends, and his independence. He followed it with a pragmatic list of what he would need to accomplish to competitively market himself for a job in the coming years. He also cataloged the outside activities he used to enjoy, capturing the full color and independent dimension of his prior life: movies, walking, jogging, dancing, cooking, gardening, camping, hiking, traveling, picking apples, going to amusement parks, attending hot-air balloon festivals, and visiting the local farmer’s market.

Subtly, I also guided him through problem-solving tasks in hopes of kindling more insight into his current capabilities. I might ask, “How would you handle a challenging situation? Identify four potential options—three appropriate and one inappropriate.” For example, when given the scenario of a teenager whose bike chain popped off two miles from home, Matt's answers included walking home, going to a nearby business, calling his dad, or hijacking a car. In a more striking, self-reflective activity, I had him consider probing questions he might ask potential colleges. He wrote down: “Would you accept someone with my situation as an assistant professor? If not, do you have an alternative option, such as teaching lab classes?”

Other journal efforts were preemptive, designed to give his brain a break by asking him to write about a favorite topic. He wrote out the meticulous steps to make wine, and even penned a full-page thesis titled “The A-Z’s: From Childhood, to College, and Being a Professor.” I read these entries with pride, realizing they were a beautiful testament to his enduring identity. Yet despite these creative outlets and diversions, we could not hold back the deeper undercurrent of frustration quietly building beneath the surface.

Matt’s growing discontent began to dominate his journaling. A frequent source of Matt’s irritation was that “we wouldn’t let him get his own apartment yet.” To help him grasp our concerns, I had him outline specific goals and necessities for independent living. Another constant complaint was that we forced him to do things that “wasted his time,” such as reading, writing, cognitive exercises, and other rehab-related activities. The stubborn "can-do" person in me was convinced he would improve so much faster if he weren’t so resistant to the process. Despite our repeated explanations, there was no reasoning with him—he couldn’t grasp the long-term benefits and lacked the insight to reach the conclusion that was so obvious to us. I cringe to think that we might have added to his loss of identity by always comparing his previous self—his motivation, logic, and inherent drive—with the now, which was so full of discrepancies.

His defiance also had a "tricky" side. On one occasion, after searching high and low for his missing Brain Quest and logic workbooks, I discovered them hidden away on the top shelf of his closet. It wasn't done out of malice, but rather as a silent protest he likely didn't even remember staging. While that represented a subtle manifestation of the ongoing tension at home, it more often came out of the blue—like a verbal tornado—most often directed at me. In these moments, he became volatile, loud, and angry—sometimes swearing, even ready to blow his stack. It was hard to conceive and endure. Matt had always been the steady, calm one, but no longer. Yet, although the brain hemorrhage had completely rewritten the rules of his temperament, it was important to latch onto the truth—these occurrences represented only a small fraction of our interactions.

Once, during a trip to the Thousand Islands, after a particularly jagged outburst, I retreated to my daughter Megan’s side, clinging to her for a hug and a good cry. Together, we mourned the son and brother who would never have lashed out like this before. These encounters drained me mentally, emotionally, and physically, tempting me to walk away. Fortunately, that is not my nature. After prayer and contemplation, I decided to look past the surface and explore the raw emotions behind his behavior. When I asked him to talk about what was truly bothering him, his first words were sharp: “You, Mom.” Then he grew more specific, citing the repetitive work and his belief that his opinion didn’t count.

Living with him some days felt like a rollercoaster ride. Later that same day, he completely reversed those piercing words, turning to me and softly confessing, “I would probably be depressed if it weren’t for you.” Wow. Even better, the following afternoon, when asked about his resentment, he smiled and glibly said, “I don’t have any.” He had easily moved on in the moment, encouraging me to do the same.

Instinctively, Mike would get in Matt’s face and demand that he knock it off, while fighting the urge to grab him by the collar in hopes of shaking some sense into him. Matt's attitude became a frequent source of discord, culminating in private conversations to try to fix things, and later in Mike pouring his heart and soul out to me. Mike felt completely hamstrung, left without any easy recourse or a tangible way to halt the behavior. In the heat of those moments, he struggled to fill his lungs with fresh air, to see Matt’s venting through the lens of a brain injury, and to extend forgiveness. It took some time for Mike to learn not to get swept up and agitated by an isolated bad day. Eventually, he realized that a single setback did not define their future, and that the best way to demonstrate his unwavering love was to give Matt time and patience to find a better way forward.

But surviving was only the first step. To truly help Matt heal, we had to look deeper beneath the surface of his anger to find out what was driving it.

© 2026, Sarah Watkins