What Lit the Fire in You?

By Sunny Cash-Simpson

At 23, I was living what many would call a dream. I had a promising career in professional sports sales, consistently topping the leaderboard. I was connecting with people through baseball, helping families create lifelong memories at the ballpark. I was young, driven, and on fire. As a woman thriving in a traditionally male-dominated space, I felt like I had something to prove—and I was proving it. And like many 23-year-olds riding a wave of early success, I started to develop a bit of a complex. I had faced ups and downs in sales, sure—but I always bounced back, always came out on top. I wore my confidence like armor. Maybe even a little cocky, a little proud. Then, out of nowhere, my body slammed on the brakes—and none of that confidence could save me.

Almost overnight, my health collapsed—and right alongside it, so did my sales numbers. Every time I laughed—or even spoke—it felt like a sledgehammer was pounding the base of my skull. My greatest joy, food, turned against me. I couldn’t keep anything down. I was dizzy, in constant pain, and fading fast. The diagnosis? Arnold-Chiari Malformation. In short—my brain was too big for my skull. (Ironic, considering my head was already getting a little large thanks to my 23-year-old ego.) The pressure was crushing vital pathways and interfering with my body’s basic functions. I needed brain surgery—and I needed it fast.

What was supposed to be a four-hour procedure became twelve. A critical artery was hit. My parents and my now husband were told I might not make it. I shouldn’t have. But I did.

Coming that close to death at 23 rewired my brain chemistry. It shattered the illusion of invincibility that defines your twenties. I had to face the question most people avoid until much later in life: If today was it, what would I have left behind? Would ticket sales and leaderboard stats be my legacy?

That brush with mortality changed everything.

When I came out the other side—bruised, broken, but alive—I could no longer go back to business as usual. The idea of chasing numbers for the sake of performance or profit didn’t sit right anymore. I wanted my life to mean something. I wanted to leave a real, tangible impact on the people around me. Baseball was fun, but it wasn’t enough anymore.

That defining moment lit a fire in me—a fire for purpose, for connection, for real impact.

Today, I’m 31 and the Chief Community Officer at a biomedical company, Bened Life, that quite literally changes lives. We work at the intersection of science, empathy, and community—bringing real hope to people navigating complex neurological conditions. I lead with heart because I know how fragile life can be. I know how precious it is to feel seen and supported when you're struggling.

Coming back from brain surgery changed the way I lead. I stopped chasing prestige and started chasing purpose. Every project I take on now starts with a simple question: Will this actually help someone? That filter changed the game. It’s not about building something impressive—it’s about building something meaningful.

I realized I didn’t want to be the hero of my own story—I wanted to be the support character in someone else’s. Whether it’s a teammate, a customer, or a community member, I want people to walk away from an interaction with me feeling heard, respected, and uplifted. That’s the kind of leadership the world needs more of.

I used to measure success in sales targets and monthly reports. Now, I measure it in human outcomes. Did someone feel less alone? Did they find a new tool, a new possibility, a new version of themselves? I still work in business—but now it’s business with a soul.

That surgery didn’t just save my life. It gave me one worth living.

Connect With Sunny

www.benedlife.com

Instagram: @benedlife 

Instagram: @sunnysonja 

www.linkedin.com/in/sunny-cash