I used to love skiing. Rather than going on cruises to the Bahamas, my parents took the family to Colorado every year. After many uncoordinated and embarrassing falls on the bunny slopes, I eventually graduated to more advanced mountain passes and skiing became like riding a bike. The annual family ski trip was something I always looked forward to. So when I was asked to go on a fraternity formal ski trip in December of 2014, I didn't hesitate to say yes.

Even though I was confident in my skiing abilities, I decided not to follow the crowd and drink heavily at the bar on the top of the mountain before the day even began. I knew that skiing and snowboarding were dangerous enough and I didn’t want to have a sip of alcohol. While my friends were skiing backwards down the mountain, waving their fraternity flag in the air and wearing nothing but their boxers, I decided to play it safe. Yet I was the one, despite my caution and years of skiing experience, who was getting dragged up the mountain in a body bag.

All I remember was a snowboarder suddenly zooming in front of me, cutting me off and causing me to dodge him by steering to the right. I was already to the far right of the mountain pass in the first place, so in attempt to avoid him, I ended up going off track into un-groomed snow. I lost control while erratically trudging through bumps, ice, rocks, and branches, and then everything went black. I apparently ran into a tree at full speed. I woke up zipped up in a body bag being pulled by a snowmobile. I was awake but nothing seemed real.

Reality didn’t hit me until I was in the back of an ambulance. All of the sudden, a full-fledged panic attack commenced and I was hyperventilating and crying when I couldn’t remember my social security number or what day it was. The paramedics stuck a syringe in my arm and drugged me up with what I think was morphine. I heard one of them say, “I think it’s working.” I stubbornly mumbled that it wasn’t working, even though all the pain melted away from my body and I was now high as a kite.

Thankfully, two of my friends spent the night sleeping in hospital chairs while waiting for my dad to get there. After an agonizing seven hour trip, my dad saw my face for the first time and burst into tears. I didn’t look too good, and the MRI and CT scans came back saying my brain was bleeding and I had suffered a traumatic brain injury. I had to stay under close care to see if the swelling and bleeding would stop or if I needed surgery. Yes, brain surgery was a possibility. While everyone around me was worried sick, I was on way too many painkillers to even understand the graveness of the situation. Those days in the hospital were a blur. I just remember there was really good banana pudding and the nurses were very nice. After three days, I was told I could go home and see a neuropsychologist to see what was next. I was told I should take a semester off and not engage in any mental stimulation for at least three to six months. Oh, really? That’s it? Just don’t use my brain for three to six months? He said I couldn’t drive, couldn’t work, couldn’t read, couldn’t look at screens, couldn’t be exposed to bright lights, etc. Thankfully, he said my damage was not permanent, but that it was crucial that I take it easy. And let me tell ya, spending months in a dark room drugged up on Oxycontin, not being able to live life like a normal human being is more depressing than you can even imagine.

I was stubborn. I still did some of the things I was told not to do, which didn’t help my cause whatsoever. Whereas most people gain weight from being on bedrest for long periods of time, I lost a lot and had no appetite. I lost muscle mass. I looked sick. I was tired all the time. When I tried easing my way back into work after a few months by being a receptionist at my dad’s office, I felt socially inept and clueless over small tasks. It was probably one of the most, if not the most frustrating things I’ve ever endured. I felt incapable. I felt insecure. I felt stupid. I just wanted to feel normal again.

Definitely not sooner than later but better than never, I started feeling like myself. My energy and appetite came back. I kicked the painkillers at the drop of a hat, which I know doesn’t always happen, and I’m very lucky I didn’t become dependent on them after the accident. I went off medical leave and went back to school and could get involved with my sorority again. I was welcomed back with open arms and every night when I was driving back home after our recruitment activities, I legitimately bawled tears of joy, thanking God that everything was okay again.

To this day, people will ask me, “So…are you really okay after the accident?” I recently saw some friends of my parents who asked me about my accident and were speaking to me extremely slowly and clearly and were treating me like I was “special” or something. Somebody that I got in a fight with said that I must be bipolar and retarded due to my brain injuries. I’m here to say that yes, I suffered from a traumatic accident. It took a toll on me mentally, physically, and emotionally. It wasn’t easy. But I’m here to say that I just ended this semester with all A’s and have gotten better grades than I ever have since my accident. I’m super active, focused, and driven despite everything I’ve been through. No, I’m not some mentally challenged, slow, cross-eyed person like the media likes to portray people who have gotten brain injuries. I’m not an idiot. I’m smart and capable and have overcome many obstacles in my life that have only made me stronger and more motivated to succeed.