When you look at me, the fact that I’m disabled is immediately seen. I use a walker, I go for coffee using a mobility scooter, and using those associate with being “disabled.” And yes, that part of my injury is real. It’s part of who I am now. But, the physical aspect of my injury isn’t the most significant element of what happened to me, nor why I was declared “catastrophic” and medically retired from my awesome job. What I’m sharing about today is the invisible-injury that I’d sustained, which was the Acquired Brain Injury.
In many ways, being visibly disabled has actually been an unexpected gift. People more often than not give me the benefit of the doubt. They assume I might need help, and they’re often kind. But I’ve met many people with invisible brain injuries who don’t get that understanding. They might say something slightly off, forget something important, or respond emotionally — and instead of being seen as someone with an injury, they’re judged as rude, unreliable, or even unstable.
That’s why I want to use my visible disability as a bridge — to open a conversation about the invisible parts of brain injuries that are just as real, just as disabling, and often more socially isolating.
Here’s what I wish people understood:
1. Invisible doesn’t mean imaginary.
Just because you can’t see the damage doesn’t mean it’s not there. Brain injuries affect cognition, memory, emotional regulation, balance, vision, and more — all in ways that can’t be seen from the outside. The symptoms are often dismissed, especially when the person “looks fine.” But they are just as real, and sometimes more disruptive than the physical limitations.
2. Fatigue is not laziness.
Many people with brain injuries experience extreme cognitive (or mental) fatigue, which isn’t physical tiredness. Some have enough energy for one errand — but then need to rest for hours or even days. It’s not about being tired; it’s like our brain’s battery dies, and no amount of coffee or motivation can recharge it. If someone with an injury cancels plans or needs to leave early, believe them, no matter what’s visible. They’re not being flaky — they’re managing an injury.
3. Behavior changes are often misunderstood.
A brain injury can affect how someone expresses emotion, how they process social cues, or how they react under stress. What might seem like anger, indifference, or rudeness could actually be confusion, overwhelm, or a genuine difficulty processing the moment. A little compassion goes a long way. If someone who “looks fine” says or does something that makes you angry please stop, and ask them about it.
4. People with invisible brain injuries are often masking.
To fit in, many hide their symptoms — especially those who aren’t visibly disabled. But masking takes a toll. It’s exhausting and can lead to burnout, depression, or a sense of alienation. When people know you’re injured, you can ask for understanding. When they don’t, you’re expected to perform like everyone else. And when you can’t, you’re judged more harshly.
What I really want to teach people is this: Don’t assume you know everything about someone by how they look. My visible disability opens doors to conversations that most people with invisible injuries never get to have. I want to use that privilege to raise awareness — and to stand up for those who are struggling silently.
So the next time someone seems “off,” pause. Ask questions. Show patience. Consider that you might be seeing just the tip of the iceberg.
Because there are so many others living with injuries you don’t see — but they feel it, every single day.
Thanks for these insights into ABI and it’s side effects. It certainly resonated with me and how I am coping with my feelings.
I used to dislike being as I am, but when my thinking changed (thanks to what Kerry Goulet helped me to realize) I understood the positive element of my injury (it’s VERY weird to refer to my being rendered an ambulatory paraplegic as something positive, but in this context it is). I’m not (yet) fully sure how, but I’m trying to somehow help the world better understand.
Great post Rob. I’ll share further too. Thank you for sharing the wisdom you have gained.
Each and every reaction to this, both typed here and spoken, is about how “overly needed” this message is, confirming my thoughts that being visibly disabled is, from a higher perspective, not the worst. It’s VERY ODD to say that, but it’s true.
Hope you’re doing well Robert, thank you for sharing this. The brain battery analogy is one I live with every single day. People often mistake my need for solitude or a quiet environment as being antisocial or flaky; but like you mentioned: it’s a biological limit, not a lack of motivation. Having an ABI means playing a constant game of energy accounting. Your post helps bridge that gap between what people see and the internal effort required just to stay present. Truly needed to read this insight. Take it easy buddy, all the best.😊
I’m happy that it worked for you, in pretty much the exact basis on which I’d written it. I hope that sharing will help more people understand more about what you’re dealing with.