Brayden was serving a church mission in South Africa when my cousins nudged me to write him a letter. I was new to Victoria and had never met him, and honestly, I wasn’t interested at the time. I was heading to Brussels for the summer, where my parents were stationed, and then to Spain for a study abroad program—I couldn’t imagine adding anything else to my plate. But eventually, I thought, “Why not?” and wrote a single letter to him. I used my Victoria address as the return, then promptly moved to Brussels.
On June 3, 2015, my brother, who had been collecting my mail, texted me. I had received a letter from Brayden on my birthday! It was hilarious—the funniest thing I had read in a long time. I quickly wrote back, this time including my correct address. That started eight months of letter-writing, with only an occasional weekly email and no phone calls or FaceTime. The happiest days were always when a letter from South Africa landed in my mailbox.
When we both returned to Victoria within a month of each other, we became inseparable. By January, we were dating; by February, head over heels; and by the end of April, he proposed. We were married July 15, 2016, on a warm, golden summer day—a perfect start to our life together.
After finishing my last university exam for the semester, a family friend asked if I could help her company set up for a big event. When I arrived, chaos had already taken over. The event tent wasn’t fully up, walls were missing to block the fierce wind, dozens of glasses were shattering, and balloons kept popping. I remember watching three women struggle to put a massive support pole in place. They hadn’t laid it flat on the ground, but because the coordinator was helping, I assumed it was intentional. I wish I could go back and warn them how unsteady it was.
I was smoothing a tablecloth when I suddenly heard a gasp. Before I could react, I felt a loud thump—the sound and impact seared into my memory. The pole had fallen and struck my head. My first thought was, “Well…that isn’t good.” What followed was a blur: spinning, darkness, a desperate urge not to cry, wishing my parents could pick me up—not realizing they had moved to Brussels three years prior. For weeks, I existed in a fog.
My next clear memory was waking up feeling seventeen again, not knowing who Brayden was. All memories of meeting, falling in love, and marrying him were gone. I saw him sitting nearby, smiling casually, and panic surged through me. I couldn’t speak, I couldn’t process anything. “Who are you?!” I wanted to scream. He cheerfully said, “Good morning, Laura!” I felt trapped in a hazy nightmare, seeing our wedding album on the coffee table and our belongings mixed together. This wasn’t a single morning—it became my daily reality. Nearly every day I awoke terrified, sometimes screaming, sometimes crying, and occasionally remembering I was safe.
The next two years were a constant struggle. The pole had caused a traumatic brain injury, plus damage to my spine that brought relentless back spasms and tension headaches. Every noise, light, or movement sent me crying in pain. One night, the agony was so intense I feared I might die; Brayden rushed me to the ER. Doctors gave conflicting advice—some dismissed it as “just a concussion.” My memory loss worsened my despair. I had to leave university before my final year, unable to read, write, or speak coherently, and without financial support for proper treatment. At one point, even the company responsible offered only a dismissive, “Hope she feels better soon.” I felt hopeless, invisible, and trapped in a life I couldn’t recognize.
Because of my memory loss, I faced the heartbreak of being married to a man I didn’t know. I went through anger and depression, mourning the life and love that felt stolen. Initially, I woke each morning believing I was still a teenager in Brussels, screaming at the confusion of a husband I couldn’t recognize. Brayden would wrap me in hugs, and my panic only worsened. He patiently repeated, “Laura, it’s me. I love you,” every day, never giving up. His unconditional love became my anchor.
I couldn’t work a normal job, but I wanted to contribute. Before the accident, Brayden and I dreamed of starting a photography and videography business. I dove into it, learning to photograph and edit despite the fog and exhaustion. At first, I could only work in 15-minute bursts, needing hours to recover, but I pushed on. Capturing weddings became more than a job—it became a way to preserve memories I feared I would never have of my own. Today, I’m proud of the business I built and the memories I help others treasure.
Around the two-year mark, the fog began lifting. I enrolled in university classes again, determined to relearn reading and writing. My progress was agonizingly slow; one test required ten hours of study, yet a headache left me unable to read a single question. I cried countless tears of frustration but persevered, turning every assignment into a personal victory.
Slowly, I realized I had to make a choice. I couldn’t remain in a marriage I didn’t remember choosing, but I also saw Brayden’s unwavering kindness and patience. I decided to start over. I removed my rings and said, “Brayden, I want to date you.” He was editing videos and blinked, surprised. I explained, “I know me, but I don’t know you. I want to know you.” Months of mini-golf dates, dinners, walks, and endless conversations followed. He listened patiently to stories I repeated over and over, read me favorite books, and left daily notes.
Eventually, I realized I was falling in love again. Brayden became my best friend, my crush, my love. Though my memories hadn’t returned fully, we created new ones together. Love, I learned, is a choice—and I chose him every day.
After a summer of dating, Brayden proposed once more, and I said yes again. This time, he recreated the story of our letters, reading me notes from the past and future, guiding me through our journey. At the spot of our original proposal, he knelt again, and I cried through tears of joy. It was the most beautiful, perfect moment of my life.
Our story taught us that love is a choice. Through memory loss, pain, and fear, Brayden has shown me the meaning of unconditional love. Together, we turned the hardest trial of our lives into a new beginning—a chance to fall in love all over again.
