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Epilogue: Part Two – Living S.A.F.E. [1]

['Douglas Schonenberg', 'Greg Dworkin', 'Dan K', 'Sabrina Haake']

Date: 2026-08-19  

If the idea of Being is what happens to us when we follow the lessons behind the words S.A.F.E., then perhaps the best way for me to explain it is to show you how I practice it.

And the truth is, when I first began living this philosophy, I had to accept a great deal that I never wanted to accept.

Everything that has happened to me has helped to form the person that I am today.

But, that doesn’t mean that everything that happened to me was good.

It wasn’t.

Some things were painful.

Some things were frightening.

Some things were unfair.

All of us have experienced things that we wish we hadn’t.

People have hurt us.

People have left us.

People we have loved haven’t loved us back.

We have failed in school, in our careers, and in our personal lives.

Whatever the experience, it may have left us questioning ourselves.

Am I worthy of love?

Am I good enough?

Am I smart enough?

Why did they leave?

Why did I fail?

Why did this have to happen to me?

When we carry questions like those long enough, we can begin to believe that the painful things that happened to us define us.

They don’t.

But they do become part of our story.

And there is a difference.

We should not look back at painful moments and be grateful that they happened.

If someone hurt you, that pain is not a gift.

If someone abandoned you, you don’t have to forgive them.

If you failed at something, you don’t have to pretend the failure felt good.

If someone broke your heart, you don’t have to thank them for breaking it.

Some things that happen to us are just painful and wrong.

But we don’t always get to choose what happens to us. However, we do get to choose our response to what happened.

The things that hurt us can become the building blocks from which we construct the person that we eventually become.

Not because the pain was good. But because we survived it.

My accident changed me. It gave me a disability that I will live with for the rest of my life.

But so did everything that came before it.

My childhood.

My mistakes.

My failures.

The people who hurt me.

The people who left.

The people who stayed.

The things that I believed about myself.

The things that I later discovered weren’t true.

Every one of those experiences added another piece to the person that is sitting beneath this tree today.

I would not choose all of those experiences to have happened to me.

There are many that I would gladly erase if I could.

But if I erased them all, I would also erase the lessons that they taught me. I would erase the strength I developed because I needed it to survive what happened to me.

The questions that forced me to look deeper inside myself for strength and courage that I didn’t know that I possessed.

The empathy that came from knowing what it feels like to be hurt.

The understanding that came from being lost.

I would erase those parts of me.

Our experiences don’t have to be good to be meaningful.

Our pain doesn’t have to be something we appreciate.

It simply has to be something that we are willing to acknowledge.

To look at it and say:

This happened.

It hurt me.

It changed me.

But it does not have to destroy me.

That is where Being S.A.F.E. began to change from an idea that I understood into a way of life.

What I Still Carry

There is another part of my story that I cannot leave out.

My disability.

The traumatic brain injury that I sustained from the car accident permanently changed my life.

It didn’t just change what I could remember.

It changed how I think.

How I speak.

How I process information.

How much energy I have.

How long it takes me to do something.

There are things that I can no longer do.

There are things that I can no longer experience.

There are things that I will never be able to accomplish because of the limitations that my injury left me with.

And this isn’t temporary. I will live with this disability for the rest of my life.

For a long time, I thought that meant that my life was over.

I was wrong.

My life wasn’t over.

It was beginning again.

My life was different than it was beforehand.

A more limited life in some ways.

A more difficult life in many ways.

But it was still a life worth living.

A limitation is not an identity.

My disability limits some of the things I can do. But:

It does not limit my ability to wonder.

It does not limit my ability to learn.

It does not limit my ability to discover.

It does not limit my ability to love.

It does not limit my ability to grow.

It does not limit my imagination.

It does not limit my creativity.

And it does not determine the value of my life.

I may have a disability.

But I am not defined by my disability.

I may have limitations.

But I am not defined by my limitations.

I am still Douglas.

Still curious.

Still asking questions.

Still sitting beneath the tree.

Still looking toward the next hill.

Still wondering what is around the corner.

And, apparently, still writing.

This book is proof of that.

Being S.A.F.E. in Action

I was reminded of all of this just recently.

Erica and I were having dinner and afterward took a walk together along a pier in Piermont, NY, overlooking the Hudson River.

It was a beautiful summer evening.

But our conversation wasn’t particularly easy.

We were talking about my disability and the limitations it has placed on our lives.

She was angry.

She was frustrated.

And she had every right to be.

My limitations don’t only affect me, they affect the person that I love.

There are trips to places like Europe that she may never be able to take with me.

There are activities that she may never get to experience with me, such as kayaking or riding bicycles together.

These are limitations on our lives that she never imagined would exist when we got married in 2001.

And when she tells me about her anger, I don’t tell her that she shouldn’t feel angry.

I don’t tell her she shouldn’t be frustrated.

I don’t tell her she shouldn’t feel resentful.

She has every right to feel those things.

Her feelings are not something that I need to fix.

Instead, they are something that I need to accept.

Because I once resented myself.

For years, I looked at the things that I could no longer do and saw them as evidence of everything that I had lost.

I compared myself to the person I used to be.

I compared myself to other people.

And every comparison seemed to end in the same place:

I wasn’t enough.

I couldn’t do enough.

I couldn’t be who I used to be.

I couldn’t live the life that I had imagined.

For a long time, I thought I was a failure.

Until I began to understand that I was fighting something that I could not change.

That was when I began to understand what it meant to live Being S.A.F.E.

Surrender.

I cannot change the accident.

I cannot change the injury.

I cannot change the limitations it gave me.

And I cannot control how those limitations make the person I love feel.

So I surrendered to the reality of what I could not change.

Not because I liked it. But, because fighting reality wasn’t going to change it.

Acceptance.

I accepted that there are things that I cannot do.

I accepted that some goals that I once had will never be fulfilled.

I accepted that there are places that I may never visit and experiences I may never have.

And I accepted that some of those things will affect Erica too.

Acceptance didn’t mean that I was happy about any of it.

It just meant that I stopped wasting my energy pretending reality was something it wasn’t.

Forgiveness.

I had to forgive myself.

I had to stop treating my limitations as personal failures.

I didn’t choose the accident.

I didn’t choose the brain injury.

I didn’t choose the life that came afterward.

I had spent years blaming myself for being unable to become the man that I thought I was supposed to be.

Eventually, I realized that I needed to forgive myself for being the man that I actually was.

And once I did that, I could finally evolve.

Evolution.

I stopped asking myself, Why can’t I do the things that I used to do?

And instead, I started asking myself, What can I still do?

That question changed my life.

I began focusing on my mind.

My imagination.

My creativity.

My curiosity.

My ability to learn.

My ability to question.

My ability to write.

I learned to work within my limitations instead of spending my life fighting against them.

I realized that I could still grow.

I could still create.

I could still discover.

I could still try to become a better person today than I was yesterday. And tomorrow, I could try to become a better person than I am today.

I wasn’t just talking about Being S.A.F.E.

I was living it.

And I realized something else.

I am happy.

Not because I have forgotten what I lost.

Not because I pretend my limitations don’t exist.

Not because I wouldn’t change what happened if I could.

I absolutely would.

I am happy because I stopped allowing what I lost to determine the value of the person that I am becoming.

The Book That Practiced What It Preached

Writing an entire book was something that I once thought was beyond me.

My brain injury made the idea of writing hundreds of pages, simply overwhelming.

So I didn’t write a book.

I started my own Substack called Musings Under The Tree.

And then I wrote my first musing.

And then another, and another.

I took one step. Then another.

And somewhere along the way, those steps became this book.

I didn’t accomplish this by becoming the person I was before my injury.

I accomplished it by accepting the person that I am now.

I surrendered the way I used to write.

I accepted that I could no longer approach writing the way I once had.

I forgave myself for not being the writer that I used to be.

And then I evolved.

The book itself began to evolve organically.

A chapter didn’t feel right, so I didn’t force it.

Something was missing, so I waited.

Another conversation would happen.

Another question would arise.

Another realization would appear.

And suddenly, the next part of the book would reveal itself.

I had spent months telling myself that I wanted the book to evolve organically.

I thought I was describing a writing process.

Now I realize I was describing the philosophy itself.

I wasn’t just writing about Evolution.

I was evolving the book.

The book taught its author as much as its author wrote the book.

Sometimes Being S.A.F.E. Means Saying Nothing

There is another place where Being S.A.F.E. can help you with your everyday life that may not be readily apparent: our conversations with other people.

Sometimes during a conversation we hear something that we disagree with and immediately feel the need to respond. I have learned that having something to say does not necessarily mean that we should say it.

One day, I was sitting in my living room with my wife and daughter while they were having a deeply personal and difficult conversation. I disagreed with some of the responses that my wife was giving to my daughter, and my old instinct would have been to interject and offer my opinion.

Instead, I stopped myself and thought about the old man on the hill that I talked about in the beginning of this book.

The old man is not there to give his opinion unless someone asks for it. He has learned that sometimes the person talking does not want to hear an answer, sometimes the wisdom is simply knowing when to listen.

So I listened while they talked and said nothing.

And afterward, when their conversation had ended, I realized that I had just practiced Being S.A.F.E.

I surrendered my need to control and be part of the conversation.

I accepted that I could not make them see things from my perspective, and that I could have made the situation worse if I had said anything.

I forgave the differences in how we understood the situation.

And I evolved by responding differently than I might have in the past.

Nothing about the conversation changed because I stayed quiet. But something about me did. I learned the wisdom of saying nothing.

That is another lesson of Being S.A.F.E.

You cannot control what someone else will say or do. Life makes the first move.

But you can control what you do next. You make the second move.

Sometimes that second move is speaking. Sometimes it is walking away. And sometimes, it is simply listening.

Being S.A.F.E. does not mean always knowing the right thing to say.

Sometimes it means knowing that you don’t need to say anything at all.

The Person Who Helped Me Walk

There is one person I need to thank for helping me to find myself.

After my accident, I spent years looking for someone who could fix me. I went to neurologists, physical therapists, occupational therapists, speech therapists, and eye specialists.

They all helped with my physical issues, but not my psychological ones. I still felt broken.

Until, one day I met a neuropsychologist who helped me to find myself.

He never promised to give me my old life back.

He never claimed to have all the answers.

Instead, he asked difficult questions that I never thought to ask myself before.

He challenged beliefs that I had carried since childhood.

He handed me tools instead of instructions.

He never tried to become the answer that I was seeking.

He simply helped me discover that I had to become my own answer.

When he retired, I thanked him for saving me.

I told him something that I had never expected to say to another man.

“You were the father that I never had.”

He didn’t rescue me.

He walked beside me until I learned how to walk on my own.

Looking back now, I think that’s one of the greatest gifts one human being can give another.

Not answers.

Not rescue.

Not a map.

Instead, a few tools, a few questions, and the courage to take the next step yourself.

So thank you, Dr. Andrew Hornstein. Thank you for teaching me that I was worthy of loving the person that I am.

My Name

As I sit beneath the tree one last time, one final memory comes to mind.

It has nothing to do with my accident.

Nothing to do with counseling.

Nothing to do with trauma.

At least, that’s what I thought.

When I was a little boy, I hated my first name, Douglas.

Even writing it makes me smile now because I remember how much I disliked it.

To me, it sounded ordinary; boring.

I wanted a better name.

A stronger name.

A cooler name.

For reasons I can no longer explain, I decided I wanted my first name to be David.

I even remember telling my first grade teacher and some of my classmates that Doug was short for David.

It wasn’t.

I had simply decided that I liked David better.

For years, my first name felt like an anchor around my neck.

My mother wrote my name on everything.

My schoolbooks.

My clothes.

My backpack.

Every time I saw “Douglas” written on something, I was reminded how much I hated it.

Years later, after I was married but before the car accident, my stepfather asked me a question.

“Why don’t you ever go by the name DJ? Your middle name is Jay. DJ sounds pretty cool.”

I laughed.

He was probably right. It was the only thing he was right about in all the years he was in my life.

If someone had suggested that to me when I was a kid, I probably would have become DJ.

Looking back now, I realize something.

For most of my life, I thought I was trying to find the right name.

I wasn’t.

I was trying to find the right person.

As a little boy, I wanted to become David.

Later, maybe I would have become DJ.

Later still, I invented the character, Mylo, and felt more comfortable with that name than my own.

After my accident, I wanted to become the Douglas I had been before everything changed.

For years, I kept searching for someone else to become.

Then one day, without even realizing it, I stopped searching.

Today, when someone says “Douglas,” I don’t cringe anymore.

I smile.

Not because I suddenly fell in love with my name. I still don’t like it.

But because I finally fell in love with the person who answers to it.

That may sound like a small thing.

But it isn’t.

Maybe you have something like that in your own life.

Maybe it isn’t your name.

Maybe it’s your age.

Your appearance.

Your career.

Your family.

A mistake you made.

A decision you wish you could change.

Maybe you look at an old photograph of yourself and wonder where that person went.

Maybe you look at the person that you are today and wish you were someone different.

Maybe you have spent years waiting to become the person that you believe that you are supposed to be.

If you have, I understand.

I spent most of my life doing the same thing.

But maybe the question isn’t:

“Who should I become?”

Maybe the better question is:

“Who am I becoming?”

There is a difference.

One question assumes that there is a finished version of you somewhere ahead, waiting for you to find it.

The other question recognizes that you are already becoming that person.

Every day.

Every choice.

Every relationship.

Every mistake.

Every forgiveness.

Every ordinary moment.

You don’t have to become someone else.

You have to become more completely yourself.

Life gave me many things I never chose.

I didn’t choose where the acorn first fell.

I didn’t choose my parents.

I didn’t choose my childhood.

I didn’t choose my accident.

And I didn’t choose my name.

Neither did you choose everything that happened to you.

But you do have a choice in what you do with what life has given you.

You get to decide what grows from it.

Which roots nourish you.

Which branches continue to grow.

Which branches fall away.

And which rings you carry forward.

That is what Being S.A.F.E. means to me.

Not becoming someone else.

But, becoming more completely yourself.

One surrender.

One acceptance.

One forgiveness.

One evolution.

At a time.

Thank you for sitting under the tree with me and listening to my musings.

If you enjoyed this musing, please consider subscribing to my Substack, Musings Under the Tree. I write about empathy, personal growth, Being S.A.F.E., politics from time to time, and whatever else wanders through my mind while sitting under the tree.

https://musingsunderthetree.substack.com/p/welcome-to-my-tree?r=1s6ofh

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