How a concussion rekindled my creativity

Today, my friend Allison Macalik launched her podcast, When the Dog Bites— a beautiful project born from a traumatic dog attack she survived exactly one year ago.

Her story is one of unimaginable fear, loss, healing, and ultimately, resilience.
Hearing her words lit a spark in me — and reminded me of a story I’ve been meaning to tell.

A story I lived last fall.
A story about a concussion... and a creative rebirth I never saw coming.

Before the fall

Let’s rewind to last summer.

Before our family trip to Italy, I made a decision that felt huge at the time:
I told Betsy, our CEO at Sunny, that my heart was all in. I committed to my role as Chief Marketing Officer — full-time, fully invested, fully on fire for our mission. And while it felt right, it wasn’t an easy decision.

For the two years prior, I had been out on my own, building Nectar for Good — my consulting business, my brand, my labor of love. I adored what I had built: the beautiful branding, the website, the clients, the freedom.

And even though I knew I was ready to be singularly focused on Sunny, I also knew I wasn’t ready to let Nectar for Good go completely. I kept the website up — even if I didn’t know exactly what would come next.

Then, right after making that decision, something else sparked.

In the afterglow of our Italy trip, a friend asked for my travel tips, and in a burst of inspiration, I created something bigger: A Glittering was born.

At first, it was quiet — a private project, tucked away.

But looking back, I can see it so clearly now: A Glittering was the evolution.
It was the bridge between my old path and my new one — giving me a voice beyond consulting, inviting me to be a storyteller, a builder, a dreamer.

The foundation was being laid.

And then, one night — everything changed.

The night of the accident

It started as one of those long, hard parenting nights.

Vivian, my daughter, was deeply dysregulated after a frustrating evening out. No amount of calming techniques, grounding exercises, or deep breaths seemed to help.

After trying everything in my toolbox (and feeling like a total failure), I gave myself a time-out, retreating to my bedroom to gather myself. I knew I was on the edge of losing my cool, and I needed a minute.

Then, a desperate idea sparked: The trampoline!

Our mini rebounder trampoline had helped Vivian let off steam before. Maybe, just maybe, it could help her reset this time too.

I rushed downstairs, spotted the trampoline — which had been moved into the doorway between our living and dining rooms — and without thinking, I leapt.

I jumped with all my might, modeling the joy I hoped she could find... and slammed my head into the low doorframe.

The pain was immediate.
I doubled over, screaming.
Vivian stopped cold, terrified.

She cried, "Why did you do that, Mom? That was dumb!" — not out of cruelty, but out of fear. It did snap her out of her spiral, but in the worst possible way: through fear and shock.

After catching my breath, I laid down upstairs, Vivian curled beside me, both of us shaken but tender toward each other.

We talked. We apologized.
We connected in a way that felt raw, real, and — strangely — healing.

The slowdown I didn’t know I needed

At the time, I didn’t realize how serious the injury was.
I was tired, sore, emotional — but I hadn’t passed out.
Still, something didn’t feel right.

The next morning, as I walked my daughter into ballet and tried to cross the street to grab a coffee, the world tilted.

I felt dizzy. Disoriented. Strange.

I texted my friend Mary Beth Phillips, a neurologist specializing in head injuries, and she quickly confirmed: mild concussion.

Low stimulation. No screens. No work. No stress.
Rest. Recovery. Watch closely.

At first, I didn’t quite grasp the seriousness.
(I mean, I went grocery shopping immediately after that text. Mistake #1.)

But as the fluorescent lights and overwhelming aisles swallowed me, I realized: this is bigger than I thought.

I went home, collapsed into bed, and slept for four hours.
Then slept another twelve through the night.

My body — my brain — was begging me to stop.
To be still.
To heal.

Over the next week, I surrendered to an entirely different rhythm.
No screens.
No work.
No constant stimulation.
Just rest, silence, and healing sounds (hello, binaural beats).
It was scary.
It was boring.
It was humbling.

It was exactly what I needed.

Recovery, care, and an angel friend

During those first tender days, my friend Kristen Montoya — a chiropractor who practices Network Spinal energy work — showed up for me in ways I didn’t even realize I needed.

She checked my pupils. She came to my house.
(Quietly deciding not to let me drive because she was that worried.)
She treated me daily, then twice a week, until I was strong enough to resume my normal cadence.

I also started physical therapy to retrain my balance — because long walks, running, even everyday movements left me dizzy and unstable for weeks.

I didn’t drink.
I didn’t push.
I chose my brain — my body — my healing.

And something miraculous started to happen.

A creative rebirth

Coming out of that concussion felt like waking up to a new version of myself.
Kristen could feel it energetically.
I could feel it in every fiber of my being.

I was different.
And I was flooded — absolutely flooded — with creativity.

Ideas for checklists, templates, blog posts, designs — they poured out of me like a firehose I couldn’t shut off.

At night, I stayed up late crafting and dreaming and creating.
It was like the universe had been waiting for me to slow down, to open the channel, to listen.

I launched A Glittering for real.

I leaned into making checklists (and opening an Etsy store) that could help kids and families (starting, of course, with my own).

I trusted the creative surges, even when I didn’t know exactly where they would lead.

I rode the wave.
I let myself be led by joy.
I moved 1% forward, day by day.

The 1% that matters

I don't know where all of this is leading.
I don’t know what the checklists, or the blog, or the future of A Glittering will look like.
But I do know this:

Every tiny act of creation matters.
Every leap of faith matters.
Every time we choose to heal, and listen, and create from a place of truth — it matters.

That’s the 1%.

And I’m here for it.

And now for more of the truth…

For those of you who’ve read this far, you deserve to know the full story. Allison launched her podcast three weeks ago. I wrote the above post immediately after hearing her first episode.

It’s been sitting on the shelf, quietly waiting.
Ready — and somehow... not.

Why didn’t I share it?

Too vulnerable?
Too small compared to surviving a dog attack?
Not as tidy or complete as other stories of resilience?

Maybe I was waiting for the “right” moment.
Allison and I went back and forth on finding a date for her podcast, and something always came up.
Eventually, I started wondering if my story even belonged next to hers — or anyone else’s.

A mild concussion?
That’s not survival, right?
That’s not enough... right?

But here’s what I’m learning (and reminding myself):

This story is part of something bigger.
Even if I don’t know what yet.
Even if I’m still in the messy middle.
Because my spiritual and midlife awakening has been unfolding for years — quietly deepening, humbling, meandering into beautiful places as I follow the flow.

Or maybe I didn’t post because it’s May-cember —
and my calendar is bursting with all the momming things,
and sometimes it takes everything I’ve got just to prioritize myself.

Whatever the reason, I share this part of my journey — the pause, the hesitation, the lingering — because that’s part of it too.

From the outside, it might look like I have it all together.
(Ha. I don’t. And maybe you never thought I did!)
But this is your reminder: we’re all human.

We ebb. We flow.
There’s no right way to do this.
There’s just your way.

So go with your flow.
And I’ll keep going with mine.