I never wanted to tell my story. For a long time, I went to great lengths to hide my concussion, pushing through the symptoms with stubborn resolve. My rationale, though deeply flawed, seemed sound at the time. I needed to be strong for those that depended on me:, my wife, kids, friends, colleagues, and clients. I equated sharing my struggles with weakness, as if admitting my symptoms meant letting their effects on me win. In hindsight, this approach led me down a lonely path, leaving me feeling defeated.

I’d often hear concussion stories, sometimes from car accidents or falls, but more often sports-related. There’s a certain heroism and glory attached to sports, and it seemed that those concussion stories were more easily met with understanding and compassion. Most have little difficulty acknowledging that traumatic brain injuries represent the dark underbelly of contact sports. And this subtlety partly drove my reluctance to share my struggles since my injury felt almost trivial by comparison. I didn’t get hurt on the field while scoring a game winning touchdown, but rather, I simply hit my head on the corner of my dining room table while picking something up. It seemed inconsequential, but I quickly learned that there is no such thing as a minor concussion.

I didn’t lose consciousness, just a noticeable bump, tingling, and a sudden urge to sleep. I thought I was fine. Unfamiliar with concussions or how to identify one, I did what I always did, : went to bed, woke up the next morning, and drove to work. Only by midday did I realize something was wrong. The lights were blinding, noises unbearable, and I felt detached from myself,  – almost like I was floating above my body. It took weeks of struggling through these symptoms before I finally saw a doctor. A brief physical exam led him to a concussion diagnosis, followed by a series of scans and assessments followed. I naively hoped for a quick fix, but this was only the beginning of a long, unpredictable journey.

Each specialist visit brought hope for a breakthrough, followed by disappointment when I realized there was no “silver bullet,” no set timeline for recovery. I was struck by how little the medical profession understood the brain and how it heals post-concussion. The initial advice I received: lock myself in a dark, quiet room, avoid screens, and get lots of sleep for at least two weeks, seemed logical at the moment, but I later learned how dangerously outdated it was. Admittedly, it also wasn’t particularly viable for me given everything I had going on, or at least, that was my perspective at the time. As a Partner and newly appointed national leader of a growing practice, taking time off didn’t seem like an option. I felt immense pressure to lead, to show resilience, and to deliver.

With this strong impetus to get better, came determination and newfound urgency. I started researching on my own, watching recovery stories, seeking treatments and clinics, and connecting with support groups (the CLF, among them). I learned that gradual reintroduction of light physical activity and cognitive challenges was key, and that the medical advice I’d received was incomplete. I took this as a green light to continue pressing forward at work, despite the frequent and recurring symptoms. Consulting is cognitively demanding. I always say that we make a living off our thought leadership, and that’s premised on our ability to think differently and deeply. Deep thinking seemed beyond reach, as I battled through days when my brain fog made even basic tasks feel insurmountable. 

There would be mornings where I’d wake up with debilitating brain fog, however I’d be scheduled to lead a big meeting, facilitate a client workshop, or deliver a keynote speech, all high paced, dynamic situations that demand elevated cognitive acuity. Yet, I internalized my struggles and delivered on my commitments. Afterwards, I often asked trusted colleagues if they noticed anything off and their reassurances only reinforced my misguided belief that I could, and should, keep pushing through.

Looking back, what frustrates me most is that I knew better. I regularly encouraged my teams to prioritize their wellbeing, to be open about challenges, and to lean on each other for support. I fostered a culture of empathy and vulnerability, yet I couldn’t extend that same grace to myself. Stepping away felt harder than powering through and I worried that taking time off would signal weakness or an inability to handle pressure.

Concussions are invisible, but there is an important nuance buried within. It’s easy for others to understand why an athlete needs to sit out, but much harder to grasp why a professional consultant might not be “game ready.” The invisibility of post-concussion syndrome often leads to misunderstanding or dismissiveness from those unfamiliar with comments like “you look fine” or “it’s just in your head.” I realized much later that this invisibility can perpetuate the ill-advised approach of covering up your struggles. After all, if others can’t see it, then it’s much easier to go along with the “I’m fine” narrative. 

For months, I continued this way, until the world changed in March 2020. The pandemic forced us all into isolation. Work went from commuting to the office, engaging face-to-face with my teams and clients, to setting up a makeshift office in my dark basement, while doing my best to “keep the lights on” in the business. The hours were even longer than usual, and a lot more taxing. Like many of my colleagues, we were glued to our laptops on a continuous string of Zoom calls, with no other stimulus, natural balance, or transitions built into the day. In addition to the common challenges many experienced from working exclusively from home, this new construct was having another more damaging effect on me as my symptoms were flaring up. Neurofatigue, difficulty concentrating and multi-tasking, irritability, fogginess, light sensitivity, and overall decreased mental acuity. It was like crawling through sludge, with no end in sight. I tried everything: exercise, meditation, cognitive therapy, and more. That period, as difficult as it was, forced me to take deliberate action to improve my quality of life and adopt healthy practices that I still use today.

Now, nearly six years later, I’m grateful for how far I’ve come. Recovery hasn’t been linear or without setbacks, rather it’s been marked by gradual progress. I’ve realized that my focus was often too fixated on my symptoms. What made it worse was when I was in the middle of a good stretch, I found myself bemoaning the inevitable return of my symptoms, an ominous cloud looming overhead. Therein lies why I’ve crafted this story with little emphasis on the symptoms. Sure, others may find comfort in knowing that they’re not alone in dealing with similar symptoms, but my view is that there is more value in sharing my interpretation and perception of the journey. I believe it is not the setbacks themselves, but how we respond to them, that defines our recovery. Our reasoned choices in the face of adversity are our true power. 

If there’s one observation, I hope others take from my experience, it’s this: vulnerability is strength. By sharing our struggles, we set an example for others and create a culture of openness, empathy, and support. Resilience isn’t about pushing through at all costs, but rather about accepting help, giving ourselves grace, and choosing how we perceive and respond to our challenges. I could regret bottling up my struggles, but instead, I choose to see this journey as an opportunity for self-discovery and growth. It’s been a winding path, full of detours, but rich with lessons that have shaped me.