Tis the season … for PTSD?

It seems my need for updates is becoming fewer and farther between, but as a couple of dear friends have reminded me, these updates aren’t just for me—they’re for my family and others who have been with us on this journey. I’ve learned that when something lingers with me—a feeling, an epiphany, or just a thought that won’t go away—I usually know it’s time to share.

A few mornings ago, I woke up and headed to pickleball. It was the first icy morning of the season, and as I drove to the club, I passed the accident site for the first time since January 6th. As I exited a roundabout, the car slid slightly on the curve. It was a small, subtle moment, but my heart was racing, and I was transported back 11 months. As I approached the accident site, a wave of emotion swept over me. Then, as if on cue, I saw a car about 200 yards ahead swerve on the ice. They quickly regained control, and I noticed there was no oncoming traffic, but it hit me hard. The fear washed over me like a cold, dark blanket—a sharp reminder of my inability to fully protect my children.

When I arrived at the club, the familiar, smiling faces of friends greeted me. Everyone was talking about the icy roads and how much they bothered them. I shared a bit of my own fears, and as I joined the conversation, I felt the power and strength that come from friends and community. They can’t change the ice on the roads, but they help me manage the fear. Still, I’ve realized that comfort from friends, while meaningful, can be fleeting.

The season is here, and as beautiful snowflakes fall, I find myself experiencing a completely different set of emotions than I used to. What once brought excitement for the holidays and tromping around in the snow now brings a wave of anxiety every time the roads start to freeze. I’m not sure if this will ever fully go away, but I know I have some work to do.

This morning, Lauren left on an early flight—her first trip without Jennifer or me. I didn’t sleep much the night before. While I’m happy to see her making progress and moving toward independence—not fully what she had before January 6th, but so much more than when she came home from Craig Hospital—it’s still hard to let go.

As I sat with my groggy cup of coffee, it occurred to me that our job as parents is to be the frontal lobe of our kids’ brains. Science tells us it takes 25 years for the human brain to fully develop, and during that time, we serve as the external guide for their decision-making, impulse control, and reasoning. With four kids, by the time we’re done, Jennifer and I will have served as that part of their brains for a combined total of 100 years of parenting. It also struck me that, in some ways, those numbers have been reset. The accident took our kids a few steps back, and it’s certainly added some wear and tear on our own minds.

I’m hopeful that this will get better, but I’m also open to the possibility that it won’t. Either way, I know I need to find a way to deal with it without letting my fears or insecurities affect those around me.

As always, thank you for reading and for the support you’ve shown our family nearly a year later. I realize these updates have become my therapy, and I truly appreciate you all participating in this journey with us.