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I Believe It. I Need You to Believe It.

I Believe It. I Need You to Believe It.

by | Apr 10, 2026 | Belief, Brain Injury, Doctor Visits, Medical Tests, Neurological 🧠

"Past performance is not indicative of future results” is good news for anyone facing a major life setback.

Any advertisement you see for an investment firm includes the required disclaimer, “Past performance is not indicative of future results.” They are legally required by the Securities and Exchange Commission to let you know not to base your buying decisions on past events. In the unlikely event a certain stock may have doubled every year for the past 10 years, even then, there is no guarantee you will enjoy the same results.

What does this have to do with your present situation? Everything. That statement is often viewed negatively. In other words, don’t get your hopes up too high. However, “past performance is not indicative of future results” is good news for anyone facing a major life setback.

Everyone has experienced a major setback. Whether it was a job loss, divorce, financial crisis, or health condition, we all face them. If you live long enough, hopefully you can look back and see that you eventually overcame what was once an impossible hurdle, or that the impossible ended up working out in the end. It never feels that way when you’re going through it.

Believing

My neurologist looked at me and said, “You’re going to get better!"

Disbelieving, I said, “How do you know that?”

He said words that have stuck with me since: “I believe it. I need you to believe it."

After I suffered anoxic brain injury from cardiac arrest, a neurologist explained how my recovery might look. He said in years past, expert neurologists believed that whatever state of improvement a person gained in the six months after a brain injury was considered their baseline. Their progress after a year was their maximum possible improvement. There was good reason to believe that. Back then, those beliefs were based on existing brain research and patient outcomes.

On my first visit to my neurologist, I was not in a good place, mentally, emotionally, physically. I had been struggling for two years with symptoms I didn’t understand and couldn’t stop. I explained to my neurologist how a previous doctor told me I reached my limit. There could be no more improvement.

My neurologist looked at me and said, “That's a terrible diagnosis. You’re going to get better."

Disbelieving, I said, “How do you know that?”

He said words that have stuck with me since: “I believe it. I need you to believe it. When you believe it, your brain will put itself in a position to heal, and it will begin to heal.”

My doctor said the outdated research and old beliefs were proven false. Why? Because of neuroplasticity. The word has become more well-known because of better research and verified patient outcomes.

“Neuroplasticity, also referred to as brain plasticity, means that every time you learn something new… your brain physically changes—it upgrades its hardware to reflect a new level of the mind. Neuroplasticity helps explain how anything is possible.” 1

I had struggled for two years. It felt like failure every day. I didn’t understand my symptoms, know how to overcome them, or even manage them.

Past performance is not indicative of future results. Our brain’s ability to create new neuropathways means my future isn't cemented with today's status. I can change. I can grow. So can you.

A couple of years ago, I was sitting in the emergency department waiting room with a relative. I was glad I wasn’t the patient that time. Like most hospitals, the waiting room had multiple areas and an empty seat was difficult to find.

I was sitting near the admitting desk, so I watched three people walk in, distressed. An older woman’s husband was taken there by ambulance and arrived just minutes earlier. Apparently, he was at home feeling just fine, and then he wasn’t. The woman’s young adult daughter was crying and near hysterical. Her boyfriend was with her, and he didn’t say much.

An hour after they sat down, near me, a nurse came out and said they could see their husband and father, but not for a while. It was unclear if he would ever function again, or even recognize is family. More tears followed.

After the nurse left, I felt compelled to talk to that family. Some people wouldn’t want to be bothered, understandably. That wasn’t the case with this family. I learned that their family member either had a stroke or heart attack. It was still unclear. He was unconscious for quite some time. The daughter was attending college in Germany and came back to visit her family and introduce them to her new boyfriend. He knew very little English.

I briefly shared my story with the family. The point was that, when they finally would be able to see their husband and father, he likely wouldn’t look good. In fact, things might look grim. I challenged them not to judge his future by what they would see in the following moments.

We all need to remain hopeful for one thing or another. As Winston Churchill famously said, “If you're going through hell, keep going.” When you’re going through it, the easiest and most common thing to do is to believe that is how things will always be.

Your situation can change for the better. Thanks to your brain’s ability to change, anything is possible.

I believe it. I need you to believe it. 

Invisible Illness: How I Look Doesn’t Reflect How I Feel

Invisible Illness: How I Look Doesn’t Reflect How I Feel

by | Mar 26, 2026 | Brain Injury, Cardiac Arrest ❤️, Neurological 🧠

I realize this might sound ridiculous. When people ask about my health, or a certain health condition, their response is often something like, “But you look great, it can’t be that bad!” As if looking good equates to good health or even feeling good. Instead of feeling complimented, it feels discouraging.

There are so many people with serious health conditions that suffer from what doctors call invisible illness. Invisible does not mean a patient is fabricating a health issue. It means that the condition is not observable by others. This makes sense. It’s logical. Yet, most people falsely believe if they can’t see a clear indication of illness, then whoever they are looking at must be healthy. This is very common with neurological disorders.

People understand this at some level, but it doesn’t seem to matter when speaking to someone with chronic illness. One of my neurological disorders, syndrome actually, is an invisible illness. It’s Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, or POTS. Cleveland Clinic explains that “Postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome (POTS) is a condition that causes numerous symptoms when you transition from lying down to standing up, such as a fast heart rate, dizziness and fatigue.”

Why can’t you see POTS? Because you can’t see my heart rate, you can’t observe my degree of dizziness, and you can’t understand my fatigue if I’m standing in front of you. In the same way, you can’t see in someone else high blood pressure, poor vision, a stomach ulcer or a pancreas that’s not doing its job well. There are so many illnesses and conditions that you can’t see.

I’m astounded when people respond to me that I look fine, therefore, I must feel fine.

My neurologist warned me to expect comments like that. He creates YouTube videos and Instagram posts to help patients and their connections understand invisible illness. I’m grateful for that.

I have two cardiologists, and they want me to do cardio exercise. So I do that three times a week. My two neurologists want me to do some form of resistance training, like weights. I do that three times a week. If I only went to the gym when I felt like it, I would never go. Just getting there and starting feels like what I imagine walking in quicksand is like. My doctors say resistance training improves brain performance and neuromuscular disorders. I need all the help I can get. A side benefit is that I suppose I look like I’m in good shape.

One of the reasons I’m writing this is to educate people. I realized long ago that hardly anyone can truly understand what I’ve gone through or what I deal with. I’ve had the blessing of meeting other cardiac arrest survivors. They understand. Even then, each of us have a different mix of conditions​. It's like a tornado that rips through a community. Some people's homes are destroyed, while others only have debris in their yard.

I’ve explained to many people how anoxic brain injury has caused me to have cognitive impairment. Almost always, people will say something like, “Oh, I totally understand. I forgot my neighbor’s name yesterday!”

Most people realize you can’t compare forgetting your neighbor’s name with brain damage. The comparison may be said to empathize. It does the opposite. I feel unheard​.

You may be overloaded, stressed out, tired or just a little forgetful because you are aging. That’s common. A brain injury is not. I’m sure many people say these things so they can sound relatable. Or, maybe they don’t want me to feel so bad about my condition.

Several years ago, I had emergency gall bladder surgery. It was the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced, and I’ve endured many painful experiences. An older female relative later told me she had the same emergency surgery, and she understood the severity of the pain. She said it was so terrible, it made giving birth seem easy. In fact, she said she’d give birth any day over gall bladder surgery. It was that bad.

Plenty of women I know have shared how giving birth was such a painful experience. Based on my relative’s story, wouldn’t it be downright foolish and rude to tell a woman, “I know exactly how you feel about giving birth. I had my gall bladder removed?​”

You can’t relate to surviving cardiac arrest nor the repercussion that came with it. I don’t expect you to understand. I can’t relate to women who gave birth, but I can show some compassion and be helpful however I can. Most people don’t want pity. I definitely don’t.

If someone you know has an invisible illness, and they describe a terrible symptom, resist the urge to compare it to your experience. Sometimes, just listening is enough.

If you live with an invisible illness, I probably can’t understand everything you’re going through. Just know you’re not alone​.

The Relief and Grief of a Medical Diagnosis

The Relief and Grief of a Medical Diagnosis

by | Mar 26, 2026 | Brain Injury, Cardiac Arrest ❤️, Doctor Visits, Healthcare, Medical Tests, Neurological 🧠

After two years of frustrating symptoms, I finally had an answer. That answer came with conflicting emotions battling in my mind. Any given day had a different winner​.

A short time following cardiac arrest, I started to experience symptoms that became more frequent, and more defined. What I mean is that I didn’t just have a general sense of not feeling well. I felt dizziness every day that, at times, the severity had me reaching for the nearest wall or chair for balance.

My level of fatigue was—and still is—severe. Since it was only a few months after cardiac arrest, my cardiologist assured me this wasn’t uncommon. No matter what I said or how I explained the severity of my symptoms, his answer was always the same: “Cardiac arrest is traumatic. Not just emotionally, but to your entire body. It will take time for your body to recover.”

To be fair, a specialized cardiologist is concerned with your heart and all things related. It doesn’t mean he or she isn’t concerned with your other conditions. It would be unethical and bad medicine for a cardiologist to attempt a neurological diagnosis. More commonly, a cardiologist may share his opinion but would refer you to a neurologist. Plus, I’ve learned that symptoms like fatigue and dizziness can be caused from dozens, maybe hundreds, of factors.

More than a year later, there was no improvement or recovery in sight. Dizziness is a well-documented symptom post-cardiac arrest. I didn’t know that back then. It’s caused from anoxia—complete lack of oxygen to the brain—or hypoxia, which is not enough oxygen to the brain. However, my mix of symptoms went undiagnosed for close to two years.

Two Long Years

Two years later, I finally had an answer, but that answer meant I had another medical condition. There is both relief and grief when you get a medical diagnosis.

I don’t read much news for many reasons. One of them is that I need to choose where I put my mental energy, and news is too draining. However, one day I was skimming news and saw a headline that read: You look fine. Your doctor is stumped. But this disorder is leaving millions 'a hot mess.’

I had been frustrated with symptoms and had no improvement for nearly two years. My symptoms precisely matched what the article discussed. If I ever felt validated, it was then. One of the neurologists quoted in the article eventually became my neurologist, and for that, I’m deeply grateful.

After several tests, I was diagnosed with POTS (Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome). Cleveland Clinic explains that “POTS… causes numerous symptoms when you transition from lying down to standing up, such as a fast heart rate, dizziness and fatigue.”

Two years later, I finally had an answer, but that answer meant I had another medical condition. There is both relief and grief when you get a medical diagnosis. I felt relief because there was an explanation for my symptoms, and I could learn to manage them—and maybe feel better. I felt grief because that meant having yet another medical condition to manage that will likely never go away. That impacts my quality of life. Like many neurological disorders, there isn’t necessarily a cure, but there are ways to manage symptoms. The conflicting emotions can feel like a massive battle in your mind: validated, disappointed, relieved, hopeful, frustrated, angry, hopeful again. That inner battle can feel exhausting, as if there is only one correct emotion.

There is no correct feeling, although some are healthier and more beneficial than others. I’ve learned that I had to work through—struggle through—that range of emotions. That process of struggle allowed me to come to a place where, after a diagnosis, I could feel thankful and hopeful. That doesn’t happen instantly.

Challenges like these feel like pushing a large rock up an icy hill. Every so often, it feels like a losing battle. No one in their right mind wants to be diagnosed with a medical condition. Yet, it feels relieving to get that diagnosis. It validates you. You’re not imagining symptoms. You’re not crazy.

I’m thankful for my doctor who put me on the right path, and educated me on how to manage my symptoms. If there is anything I’ve learned, it’s that good healthcare isn’t only based on having a good doctor. Part of good healthcare depends on you, the patient. Good doctors are key, but it’s up to you to ask questions, communicate honestly with your doctor, and do the work they tell you to do. Equally important is having the attitude where you do not give up.

Managing symptoms is my responsibility. To reduce POTS symptoms, I’m on a high sodium diet. I sometimes wear compression socks. I need to stand up slowly if I’ve been sitting for a while until I feel steady.

Annoying? Yes. Empowering? Also yes.

The average time it takes to get an accurate diagnosis of POTS is seven years. I’m thankful my time was about two years. Whatever you’re facing, don’t give up, and do what you can to move forward, even if you take small steps as you have the energy​.

It can feel like the answer is out there somewhere, far from you. You might find that part of the answer is within you: your drive to overcome.