Sunrises inspire new beginnings: Life with an invisible disability
- Apr 7
- 4 min read
By A-M Mawhiney
I have taken over 900 photographs of summer sunrises from a cabin in Northern Ontario, Canada. I find them inspiring. Each one is unique, radiating different colours, moods and, always, the promise of a new beginning. They remind me change can be beautiful, illuminating even, as each morning brings light into the inky darkness. Each dawn presents an opportunity to move forward. Some sunrises warn of unpredictable stormy weather: even on a day where we know what our plans are, the unexpected can change everything.
Recently a friend, who had just finished reading Fugitive Rifts, commented that the main characters in my latest novel reflect parts of my own life. And she is right. Ollie becomes an art therapist who works in the field of mental health. My first job after graduation from university was as a social worker in a children’s mental health clinic. I am a loyal basketball fan, although I never played the game—to put it kindly, since I am no athlete. Grace dreams of becoming a professional basketball player. Dottie aspires to become a researcher who changes the world, while I was a professor/researcher who was part of a project that supported social change in a small part of the world with ripples to other places.
As for Drew, well, he and I share the experience of having had a life-changing disastrous event that shattered our dreams. Mine was a fall down a flight of stairs that resulted in multiple injuries including a serious head injury.
During my first weeks of medical leave, I received occasional calls from work and, apparently, I would sound cogent. But as soon as the call ended, I had no recollection of the conversation. After a month I was able to start cooking for myself but had to remind myself constantly about safety precautions. I also learned later that my emails to friends were incomprehensible although they made sense to me. That is how cloudy my Judgement was those first months.
After three months, when my symptoms did not clear, a psychologist recommended neurofeedback sessions. These sessions were essential in my recovery.
For a few reasons, including my need for workplace accommodation, my employer created a job for me that allowed me to work on special projects with flexible hours. My supervisor established a work climate that provided me with peer support and emotional safety without disclosing my medical condition, although I was transparent about what had occurred.
The first month I returned to work, I spent days in my office staring at the wall reminding myself that I used to breeze through similar projects and I just needed to get going. Finally, after a few weeks, I developed my project’s plan, a mere four-page document, but a good start. Running this project over the next two years became a part of my healing journey.
It is possible to paper over a crack in a wall so it is invisible but, in fact, the crack is merely hidden. There is always a concern that it may re-appear. This, too, is my reality. Another fall has the potential to be catastrophic.
It took me a long time to accept I am not the same as I was before my fall. I often find myself papering over or masking my realities for others because it is easier to pretend. On good days I can be articulate and capable but I am mentally in a constant stage of awareness: there are still times when I say or do something that elicits baffled looks.
When I retired, I noticed that the slower pace meant fewer bouts of post-concussion events. But they still do occur. There are times when I can’t find words, especially when I am tired yet, somehow, I am able to write. This came as such a surprise to me.
I went through a very long, dark time without hope until one day dawn broke, lighting the way to an amazing new journey, inspired by an abandoned childhood of creativity. Writing and entering a virtual community of other writers has set me on a new course I could never have imagined. I do wonder if I would have started writing had I not experienced this trauma.
I know many people are unable to recover after a life-changing event and I do recognize how fortunate I have been. I treat every day as a gift because my recovery could have followed the different, dark path.
At times over the years since my fall my usual optimism has seemed far away. Seventeen years ago, my world grew dark and, as I lost consciousness, my last thought was wondering if I would ever wake up. It is only in recent years that I have found hope and a renewed way forward that is fulfilling. It took a lot of energy to hide what I was really going through for all the years in between.
If you are going through a challenge and feel like nothing will ever be right again, please remind yourself that change can take time, with many baby steps.
Be patient with yourself. Facing challenging obstacles is a difficult journey and finding supports—friends, professionals, and random people you meet along the way—can help light the way forward.
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