Turning Trauma Into Purpose: How I Turned a Traumatic Brain Injury Into a Writing Mission

When I was five years old, a carefree game of tag turned into a life-altering moment. Running from a neighbor, I felt the thrill of the chase—until he pushed me. I stumbled forward, crashing headfirst through a basement window. Glass shattered, and with it, my sense of security.

(Things Writers Should Know.)

The impact left me with a traumatic brain injury (TBI), migraines that pulsed like storms, amblyopia in my right eye requiring an eye patch, a speech impediment that tangled my words, sensory and auditory processing disorders that turned the world into a chaotic blur, and struggles with memory and connection that made me feel like I was tuned to AM static while my classmates lived in FM clarity. Overnight, I went from a joyful kid to someone who felt defective, disconnected, and invisible.

School became a daily reminder of my difference. While my peers stayed in English class, I walked alone across a field to a speech therapist’s office, each step heavy with the weight of feeling unseen. But in that small room, something remarkable happened. My therapist didn’t just teach me to form words; she celebrated every halting syllable, covering my progress charts with stickers and stars. She showed me that my voice mattered—and that meant I did too.

Her kindness became the spark for my debut children’s book, You Matter, Luma, a story about a bunny who learns that even the smallest act of kindness can create ripples of connection. I later transformed my trauma into a writing mission. Here I offer both inspiration and practical insights into crafting stories that resonate across generations while staying rooted in a singular truth: Kindness matters, words matter, and every person matters.

The path from that broken window to a published book was a winding one. My TBI left me grappling with migraines, blurred vision from amblyopia, sensory overload, and a speech impediment that made every sentence a battle. Memory lapses and difficulty connecting with others deepened my isolation, as if the world moved too fast for me to keep up. Writing seemed like a dream for someone whose thoughts scattered like fireflies in a storm. Yet my therapist’s kindness—those stickers and stars—whispered that my voice had value, even when it faltered.

Years later, reading to children at a community center, I saw their eyes light up when stories acknowledged their quiet doubts—feelings of smallness, invisibility, or loss. I thought of the boy who crashed through that window, the one who asked, “Do I even matter?” and feared silence in return. That boy inspired You Matter, Luma, the first story in The Matteringverse™, a world where every tale affirms that we all need to feel seen, valued, and capable of making a difference.

Luma, a bunny in the vibrant Passion Struck Forest, feels invisible amidst the hum of life—birds chirping, ants hurrying, fireflies dancing. Her question, “Do I even matter?” mirrors my own childhood ache. Guided by Oliver the owl, she discovers her worth through storytelling, sharing tales that spark joy in friends like Zin, Sage, Wren, and Theo.

For writers, the lesson is clear: Our deepest wounds can birth our most universal stories. I didn’t write a memoir; I distilled my trauma into a truth anyone can feel: the longing to be seen. The craft challenge was to make Luma’s journey accessible to children through sensory-rich prose while embedding depth for adults. When Luma whispers, “I matter because I am me,” after seeing her stories light up her friends’ eyes, it’s a triumph born from my own journey to reclaim my voice.

Writing a children’s book means speaking to two audiences: the child who listens and the adult who reads aloud. You Matter, Luma had to captivate young readers with its vivid world while inviting caregivers to reflect on their own moments of doubt or connection.

For children, I used sensory details and rhythmic prose to bring the Passion Struck Forest to life. Fireflies flicker, stars shimmer, and Luma’s heart feels “tiny, like a star lost in the daytime sky.” Short sentences mirror a child’s perspective, making the story easy to read aloud. In a quiet clearing, when Luma shares her stories and sees her friends’ reactions—Zin’s tail flicking, Wren’s head tilting, Theo’s fidgeting, Sage’s steady gaze—it shows kids that their words can spark connection. This scene, where “her voice filled the cave” with tales of adventure and wonder, teaches children that their stories matter.

For adults, I wove in subtext drawn from my struggles. Luma’s sensory overload in the bustling forest echoes my processing disorders, and her fear of insignificance reflects the isolation of my memory and connection challenges. When a storm scatters Luma’s stories and she doubts their worth, Oliver’s question—“Did the storm take you, Luma?”—mirrors my therapist’s belief in my resilience. I wanted caregivers to see their role in helping children feel valued. One parent shared, “Reading Luma to my daughter made me realize how my encouragement shapes her world.” That’s the bridge I built.

The craft takeaway? Layer your story for both audiences. Use vivid, accessible language for kids, and trust adults to find meaning in the subtext. I tested drafts aloud, picturing a curious six-year-old and a weary parent at bedtime. If the story didn’t resonate with both, I revised, ensuring every word served the mission of mattering.

You Matter, Luma is the first story in The Matteringverse, a story world where every tale reinforces a universal truth: We all need to feel seen, valued, and capable of making a difference. My mission—to show that kindness, words, and every person matters—guided every choice. Early drafts were too raw, weighed down by my migraines and sensory chaos. Beta readers noted that Luma’s story felt more like a personal lament than a children’s book. They were right.

I learned to let the mission lead. Instead of dwelling on Luma’s doubts, I focused on her growth—her realization that sharing stories with friends like Theo the hedgehog creates ripples of connection. This shift, inspired by my therapist’s kindness, made the story universal. When a storm scatters Luma’s stories, she doubts again, but Oliver’s wisdom—“Did the storm take you, Luma?”—helps her see her resilience.

For writers, a clear mission is a north star. Mine was to make readers feel they matter, and every scene had to reflect that. If it didn’t show how kindness creates ripples, it was cut.

Writing You Matter, Luma taught me that trauma can be a teacher. Here’s how I turned pain into purpose:

When I think of that five-year-old boy, the one who crashed through a window and felt his world fracture, I want to tell him he’ll write a story that matters. You Matter, Luma is my way of telling him—and every reader—that they are seen, their words are powerful, and their kindness can light up the world.

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