This Is My Story, Too

What My Sister’s ABI Recovery Journey Taught Me About Mentoring and Life

I’m sitting in the waiting room of the Neurological Institute of Recovery in Florida, my laptop balanced on my knees, listening to the quiet hum of the clinic around me. My sister is undergoing a treatment that we’ve all pinned our hopes on. We flew in from different parts of the world—me from the UK, my parents and sister from Australia—for this. It’s been a long journey to get here, one filled with waiting, testing, more waiting, and treatments. Writing helps me pass the time, keeping me grounded as I sit here in this unfamiliar place, thinking about all we’ve been through.

But it’s not easy to write this. I’ve stopped myself so many times, thinking this isn’t my story to tell. It’s hers—my sister’s. She’s the one living with the effects of a traumatic brain injury. She’s the one who struggles daily with tasks most of us don’t even think about—walking, talking, working—simply living. Her life changed eight years ago, in an instant, when someone driving under the influence hit her head-on while she was on her way to netball practice. She was 21. What followed was months in a coma, and after she woke up, years of relearning how to live.

The hardest part about traumatic brain injury is that no two are the same. The symptoms vary, the recovery paths differ, but the medical system treats them all the same. My sister has spent eight years in a world that doesn’t fully understand her. The doctors tell her what’s wrong, but they don’t listen to what she says. They treat her symptoms but not her as a person. And the truth is, it’s exhausting for my family. My mother, her full-time caregiver, fights for her every day, advocating through countless appointments, tests, and treatments like the one she’s going through right now. We came to Florida because this treatment was different—because we had no other options left.

I can’t fully explain her story—it’s not mine to tell. But I’m realizing that my story inextricably intersects with hers. While I can’t capture the depth of her pain, the daily struggles, or the challenges she faces, I’ve lived this journey alongside her. It’s shaped who I am, how I see the world, how I mentor, and how I show up. Her story is woven into my own.

I’ve learned patience in a way I never could have imagined. Watching my sister relearn how to do everything—things she had mastered before the accident—has taught me that learning isn’t a straight line. It’s a winding, unpredictable path that requires patience, resilience, and creativity. My sister has to find new ways of doing things that once came naturally to her, like walking, eating, or simply balancing herself. And I see the same need for flexibility in the kids I mentor. No two children learn the same way, and it’s my job to help them find their own paths. Just like with my sister, it’s about adapting to their needs, not forcing them into a formula.

In the Writers' Workshop just past, two students are learning to write dialogue. One is analyzing her favorite book, picking apart how the author makes characters speak and interact. She’s fully immersed, dissecting the words and structure, taking her time with it. Another student, though, approaches the same goal very differently. He keeps rewriting his paragraph, sending it to me again and again for constant scrutiny. They both have similar objectives—they're both learning how to make their writing stronger—but their approaches couldn’t be more different. One is methodical and cautious, and the other is more tentative but direct about feedback.

It’s a patience game, and who am I to say which way is better? It’s not about how fast they learn or which method they use; it’s about making space for them to find their way, just like my sister in her recovery. Both students are making progress, and it’s my job to guide them without rushing the process, just as I make space for my sister’s journey.

But it’s not just patience. I’ve learned the power of truly listening. My sister often says, “No one understands what it’s like in my head.” She dislikes doctors because most just tell her what’s wrong—as if we don’t already know she has brain damage. They treat her symptoms and love to write prescriptions. She rarely meets someone who makes a real difference in cognitive and physical improvement, pain management, and living. But once in while, she connects with someone. Someone who respects her autonomy. Someone who treats her as her own expert. Someone who challenges purposefully. They mentor. And they are exactly who I aspire to be.

People sometimes ask me how I know to ask the right questions, or how I get students to unlock their own ideas. It didn’t come naturally—it’s something I’ve learned from living it. Yesterday, a student felt stuck in her story; I didn’t tell her what to do. I asked about the characters—what drives them, what they want. By the end of our talk, she’d figured out the direction on her own. Another student, unsure of her work, didn’t need immediate critique. She needed me to ask what she was proud of and what didn’t feel right. By the end, she was already reshaping it herself. Living through my sister’s journey taught me how to listen—really listen—and ask the right questions. It’s not about taking control; it’s about giving space.

Another realization. My sister’s accident didn’t just change her—it changed all of us. My family has been shaped by this journey in ways that are hard to put into words. From the outside, people always talk about how amazing and strong we are. But they don’t see the daily struggles, the exhaustion, the emotional toll it takes on all of us. My dad, who always wants to fix things, can’t fix this. My mom, who’s endlessly devoted, never gets a break. And me—I live so far away that sometimes it feels like I’m not doing enough. I’m not there for the day-to-day, but when I got the call about this treatment, I did everything I could to be here. I picked up extra work, took on more clients, wrote into the late hours, just so I could afford the ticket. Because that’s what you do for family. You show up.

And I will continue to show up. As a coach and mentor, I work with kids who tell me they want to write a novel or start a blog, and I show up for them just as I do for my sister. I trust in their dreams, their abilities, even when they doubt themselves. I don’t try to force them into a specific mold or rush the process. I’m there with them, guiding them, encouraging them, and helping them take the next step—just like I’ve shown up for my family through this journey. Because showing up, whether for family or for my students, is how growth happens.

As the treatments continue, I find myself reflecting on what I’ve had to unlearn. I used to think teaching writing was all about following a formula—structure and technique. But real growth happens when you meet each child where they are and build on their strengths, instead of zeroing in on “perceived” weaknesses. Each writer brings unique challenges and talents to the table, just like my sister has had to find her own way of navigating the world post-injury. It’s not about forcing anyone into a mold; it’s about helping them find their voice.

That’s why I trained in DISC and why I coach rather than simply teach writing. Yes, I teach writing, but am I really? I ask questions. I raise their awareness of their strengths and let them take action on the areas that challenge them. I just finished a 1:1 mentoring session where one of my students unpacked her analytical, detail-oriented blog. She knew her challenge was to work on transitions and bring in more big-picture flow. She’d used her strengths and identified what needed work. I was just there to guide and support.

That’s what true learning is—but I had to unlearn to relearn that. Would I have realized this without the turbulence of my own journey? Maybe, maybe not. But it’s how I coach now.

Now, as I sit here waiting for my sister’s final treatment to finish, I’m exhausted. We all are. This month has been long and draining, both physically and emotionally. But as tired as I am, I’m also hopeful. We’ve seen some progress—small, but significant—and the doctors say the treatment’s effects will continue to unfold over the next few months once she’s back home and in her routine.

I know the journey isn’t over. For my sister, for my family, and even for me. But as I pack up my things in this waiting room, I feel a sense of clarity. This experience has shaped me in ways I didn’t expect. It’s taught me how to be a better mentor, how to listen, how to support without taking over. I don’t know what the future holds for my sister, but I know that the lessons I’ve learned through this process will stay with me in my work and in my life. And in that, there’s hope.