A little more than a mile beyond our house stands a steep hill topped by a boulder in the shade of an oak tree. Before my car accident a decade ago, I'd get up early and go for a run before work, ending with the zigzagging terrain of this hill that I'd come to call "the Mountain." I also had a name for the boulder, Rocky, which I'd sit on to catch my breath and take in the view—the lake, the woods, and, at that hour, no people. Then I'd walk home to start my day.

At the time I was a regional editor at a suburban Chicago newspaper, so my job involved a lot of sitting, typing, and fretting. Those runs energized me for my day at the office, but also gave me pep for the usual stuff of life: housework, grocery shopping, dinner prep, and shuttling our daughter between school and gymnastics.

It was one of those nights after gymnastics practice that an accident changed our lives. On our return from the gym, I let our daughter, who was 16 and had her learner's permit, drive. At a four-way stop three blocks from home, there was a crash. I have no memory of this and, thank God, I was the only one hurt.

Due to my injuries—a fractured pelvis and five other broken bones plus a traumatic brain injury (TBI)—I was airlifted to a trauma hospital in Chicago. I also lacerated my liver, bruised a lung, and cracked two of my teeth. Later, I would be diagnosed with TBI-related epilepsy. I didn't regain consciousness for a week. And it was another six weeks before I realized where I was. When I did, I saw that my husband had plastered my hospital walls with photos and mementos from different periods in our lives.

One that caught my attention was a printout of a proverb from Mali courtesy of my sister, who had served there in the Peace Corps: Dooni dooni kononi be nyaga da, which means "Little by little the bird builds its nest." It was a reminder that we may not see progress all at once, but with persistence and patience we'll get there.

My husband had also gone to the Mountain to photograph it so he could tack the image to my wall—inspiration for the uphill climb ahead of us. After my release from the hospital and long physical recovery, he and I walked together up the Mountain. At the summit I turned and raised my arms in triumph.

But my victory was short-lived. In the months following my homecoming as I gradually returned to running, my brain began to rebel. I started having generalized tonic-clonic seizures, despite the medications I had been taking to manage my epilepsy. After visits to several doctors over the next six years, we found a neurologist who discovered an effective mix of medications.

The seizures slowed, and I began to regain my sense of self. A decade after the accident, I no longer have consciousness-altering seizures and I'm back to walking. I carry bags for the litter I pick up on the way and say hi to passersby. I marvel at the beauty of nature, even as I mourn my running days.

But who am I to complain? I know what it's like to be housebound—and worse—from a brain injury and broken body. I know the drowsiness, the confusion, the loss of control. In lesser ways, I still deal with all that. But it does get better, little by little. I continue to build my nest one stick at a time.

Dooni dooni kononi be nyaga da, as they say in Mali.