I’m Back In The Saddle!

Most people think recovery is just rest, time, and patience—that it means stepping away from life until you feel normal again.

It’s not.

From the outside, recovery may look quiet. From the inside, it can feel like helplessness.

Being out wasn’t relaxing. It was agony.

I hated watching patients go elsewhere. I hated feeling disconnected from my purpose. I hated feeling sidelined while life and work kept moving without me.

The stress of being out of work was, in many ways, almost worse than the concussion itself.

So yes—I rested. I did physical therapy. I got into the morning sunlight. I stayed off social media and screens. I increased my creatine and omega-3s. I did the things I advise others to do when the brain needs support.

And when I finally started to turn the corner...

life did what life does.

My Aunt Vic died.

And I’ve thought about her a lot these past few weeks.

When I was six years old, my Aunt Vic gave me a pair of nude pantyhose for Christmas.

And let me tell you—six-year-old me thought this was the greatest gift in human history.

I may as well have been handed the keys to the Taj Mahal.

Which sounds ridiculous unless you were me.

To me, those pantyhose were sophistication. Adulthood. Confidence. Importance.

I didn’t unwrap pantyhose.

I unwrapped identity.

What Aunt Vic understood—even then—was that gifts are sometimes messages.

That gift said:
I see you.
You matter.
You are somebody.
You can become anything you want.

The pantyhose didn’t survive long. (Predictably.)

But the message did.

As I got older, she taught me about demitasse coffee, farmers markets, fine china, and the satisfaction of putting something in the ground and watching it grow.

When I was in college, she bought me the most beautiful pair of Dan Post boots, and I wore them proudly for years—until my third pregnancy changed my shoe size and forced their retirement. Even then, I kept them in my closet for another decade because some things are too special to throw away.

But the greatest thing she taught me was the art of reinvention. 

That who you are right now does not have to be who you stay.

As life changes, you can change.

You can rebuild. Redirect. Begin again.

As many times as necessary.

She taught me to walk tall. Stand proud. Work hard. Pour yourself fully into what matters.  And even now, I can hear her voice—a wonderful blend of Southern drawl and Midwestern steel—saying, “Listen to me, Jules…” 

So yes, I took care of myself after the accident.

But I did not sit around waiting to “get better.”

If I was going to be forced to slow down physically, I refused to slow down mentally.

I studied.

I collaborated.

I pushed myself in ways that made sense.

I attended advanced hands-on training in facial rebalancing with HA fillers. I reviewed some of my most challenging genomics cases directly with the medical director of Intellxx DNA. I attended Longevity Fest, focused on metabolic health, regenerative medicine, longevity science, and integrative care.

And somewhere in all of that, I realized something:

I wasn’t just recovering.

I was rebuilding, reinventing.

Adversity will either soften you or sharpen you.

I chose sharpened.

The office is open.

Thank you, Aunt Vic.