MY POST TRAUMATIC GROWTH JOURNEY – I’M DIMITRI, HERE’S SOME APPLESAUCE

Heres's White. We crossed paths in the desert. We shared a smile; We understood each other. End of story.

I’m sharing here what my impact with the ground shattered and what, later, came back.

Different. Transformed. Unexpected.

I’m sharing here what I missed. That painfully hollow void I felt the moment I regained consciousness. I want to remember it. I don’t want to forget the horrors I went through. And if I choose to remember, it’s because today, those very horrors are the fuel that drives me.They are the energy that propels me forward.

My very first intuition, the day I opened my eyes and my brain remembered something for the first time, was this : my career in business was over. I didn’t even know where I was. I didn’t know why I was sitting in a wheelchair. I didn’t even know that I had crashed into the ground during a parachute jump, from more than 13,000 feet in the air...

My very first inner thought, my very first instinct—call it what you want—was this: this is going to be hard, it’s going to take a long time, I’m going to suffer, and it’s over. My career is over. That inner voice was crystal clear. It had just informed me that I had lost the meaning of my life. The reason I thought I was on this Earth. What had driven all my actions up to that point had just vanished.

Today, I look back on my past with a smile.

When I look back on my journey in the business world, I smile. When I see that performance-obsessed guy again—the one who used to receive awards… and later hand them out—I smile.

When I see that young entrepreneur again, full of grand dreams, becoming an executive in a major company, I smile. I remember all those good moments. I remember the successes of that grandson of Italian immigrants.

When I remember those years of drifting, those years when I no longer knew who I was, I smile too. When I recall the miserable state I was in, the deep loneliness I felt before I was about to end my life, I smile. A shaky smile, but a sincere one. A smile of recognition for the man I was—lost, down on his knees, but still there. When I look at that guy who was hesitating, completely lost, going in every direction, starting from a blank page, I smile again.

The painful memory of having lived so long without purpose, the guilt-ridden memory of not knowing why I was on this Earth or why I had survived, makes me smile today. If I smile at all those dark moments my impact with the ground forced me to go through, if I look back with tenderness on having walked through my own hell, on having been that man in distress, it’s because today I know. I know why I’m still here and, for the first time in my life, I know I’m on the right path. The true one.

Coming so close to the end, being struck by amnesia, having to rebuild my brain—these were all realities I turned into opportunities.

I learned to know myself. I went to meet myself. I discovered who I truly am. And I welcomed that person with open arms, just as I truly am.

So today, I know why I am the way I am, and I know why I’m here on Earth. I’ve found meaning in my life again. I’ve got my WHY back. I’ve got my MOJO back. My head is full of dreams again. That’s why, when I have to grit my teeth again, when I have to endure again, I want to be able to remember the why and the how behind the creation of my artistic cosmogony—a creative universe so vast.

I want to be able to remember the origin of this multi-format universe, where humanity, Love, and the magic of Life are at the center. I want to be able to remember the reasons. No matter your age. No matter your background. No matter your beliefs. No matter your situation. No matter what. You are not alone.

I tell stories. Stories that may seem insignificant on the scale of humanity, but stories that mean everything to me. If I tell these stories, it’s for myself. I’m one of those who reach out—and telling stories is my way of reaching out.

I want to remember those who were there at the beginning, so here is their story. Here is my story.

I think back to this guy I was hospitalized with. We really got along. I’m not sure I remember his name. I think it was Gérard.

Aside from our brain injuries, we didn’t have much in common. But among all the other patients, he was the only one with whom I shared a common language: the language of business, the language of sales. He worked for a car dealership. With him, I could finally put on my uniform again—the suit of the guy who does business, who lives for business.

We talked a lot about how the department could be reorganized so that patients would be better cared for, about how to manage the teams… The two of us, strangely enough, had picked up on the discomfort among the medical staff, and as seasoned sales team managers, we both knew how crucial it is to have a clear mind in order to perform.

With our fractured brains, we’d basically taken over the management of the facility. We’d staged a full-blown hostile takeover—completely unsolicited, entirely in our heads, and absolutely certain in our minds. I can still see us in the medical taxi we shared, meticulously pointing out every dysfunction. That taxi ride was our own little board meeting! We’d debate, suggest solutions, imagine the impact on the staff, the patients, the whole department. We were already projecting the opening of new centers. We were one step away from putting together PowerPoint presentations. Next to us, Warren Buffett and Jeff Bezos would’ve looked like interns still learning the ropes. We were totally out of our minds—on every level. Today, it makes me laugh just thinking about it.

What makes me laugh a lot less, though, is the day he told me his partner had left him. She’d broken up with him after his accident. I’m not judging the why or the how. Maybe it was the best thing to do—I don’t know, and honestly, I don’t care.

In that moment, though, my blood ran cold. That period was hell for me. Being hospitalized threw me back into the image of a weak, dependent man. My thoughts—what they technically call spontaneous traumatic rumination—kept dragging me back to that place of helplessness. What kept me going was that every afternoon, my wife was there. She was my ray of sunshine, my breath of hope, my lifeline, my lighthouse in that disgusting storm that tears you up from the inside. You’re fighting to get your body back, but at the same time, you’re being attacked from within. Every evening, just by being there, Stéphanie gave me back my dignity. In her eyes, I wasn’t that wreck, that piece of human trash, that broken guy I saw in myself. With her, I was a man again. The man of her life. She recharged my heart. She made me feel good. More than anything else, she recharged my life force.

It felt so good. Holding her in my arms at the end of my workday with the medical staff. Talking, laughing with her. Having her by my side in the room at night, right up until they came to give me my sleeping pill and I’d drift off—that was essential. Knowing she was there was decisive. She knew how important that moment was to me. She knew I loved it, that it made me happy. That it made me feel good.

She put an insane amount of pressure on herself to be there on time, the minute the doors opened. And if you know how brutal traffic is in the Bordeaux area—the most congested city in France—you’ll understand how admirable her commitment to being by my side truly was. I honor her dedication, her determination, her willpower, her unconditional Love. She was the light that illuminated my darkness. She was my light.

So when my hospital roommate, Gérard, told me he’d been dumped, my blood ran cold. And if I write today—if I want to tell stories that, beneath it all, speak of Love and carry a message of hope—it’s for people like him. For those who are alone in moments like these.

There was Charlotte, too.

I had asked Stéphanie to bring extra applesauce so I could give some to her, because no one else was bringing her any. Charlotte had fallen off a horse, I think. But I’m not sure about that either. It’s one of those details that didn’t register—couldn’t register—back then… Her parents—her father—came to visit. He came regularly. He was there for his daughter. But I didn’t like her father. Probably because he reminded me of myself. He was probably an executive, someone who had “made it in life.”

I didn’t like the way he spoke. I couldn’t get a good feeling about him. The way he showed love, the way he tried to be there for her—it just didn’t sit right with me. It probably hit too close to home. Too much of a mirror. His style reminded me of my own: mechanical behaviors, robotic words, stripped of humanity, emptied of emotion, focused solely on achieving results. He spoke in performance commands, in outcome-driven expectations—and that, that really got under my skin.

His intentions were good. He was doing what he thought was best to help his daughter. He deserved credit for being there. For loving her. But whenever we passed each other in the hallways, I’d catch fragments of their conversations—snippets of words, turns of phrase. And I couldn’t help but think: damn, what must their talks be like? No way. That can’t be real. So I decided to act. After my crash, in that hospital, I dared to step in where, before, I would’ve done nothing. Where, before, I would’ve stayed indifferent.

With my damaged little brain, it was the part of me that reaches out to others that took over. It was one of those facets I had carefully hidden in the business world, that now showed up clearly. I gave Charlotte applesauces. But to me, it wasn’t just a applesauce.

It was my way of giving her love. My way of bringing a little tenderness into the harsh reality we lived in as brain trauma patients. Every part of me wanted to give her the same softness Stéphanie gave me—because it felt so good. My eyes, my words, my smile, and sometimes even my fingertips when they brushed hers during the exchange. It wasn’t much, just a applesauce—but at least it would bring her something positive. Something from me. My kind of positive.

It’s for Charlotte, too, that I’m building this whole universe. It’s for all those whose loved ones—though present and caring—aren’t always helpful, that I work to transcend differences, ages, and cultures in everything I create.

Whether my words are read in a book or a graphic novel, heard in a film, a talk, or a documentary—whether my outstretched hand is felt in a TV show, whether my love flows through the story of an animated film—it doesn’t matter. I know it will bring comfort to all those who, like Charlotte, need it. That will be their applesauce. It’s my way—just like the extraordinary ICU nurses did for Stéphanie—of delivering a message about the power of love in the smallest things.

There was Florian, too. He’s the one I spent the most time with. Florian worked for the railroad. He used to drive trains, but it was during a skid on a wet road that he lost his sight. The impact had damaged his optic nerve, and his brain injury didn’t help either.

But with Flo, we had a blast. He was funny. He was surrounded by his mom. She was amazing. She had already started adapting his apartment. The goal was to get Flo back home as soon as possible.

Some days, his spirits would dip. On those days, I made him laugh. That’s when my goofy, clownish side would take the spotlight. What Flo needed wasn’t a applesauce—it was a funny guy. So we made a deal: we’d be idiots together. He’d found the perfect partner in crime to mess with the nurses. We loved driving them crazy! And to anyone reading this who recognizes themselves—don’t take it personally, it was all for a good cause ;)

With Flo, I have a very vivid memory. It was time for my physical therapy session. I showed up and saw him coming out of the room, smiling from ear to ear. He came straight over to me and told me that—against all odds, against medical opinions and predictions—he was starting to see again.

He was starting to make out shapes. It was vague, it was blurry—but it was coming back. He put his hand on my shoulder to prove he was telling the truth, because yeah, we played pranks on each other too! I shouted, “Holy shit, that’s amazing! I’m so happy for you, Flo! That’s incredible.” It’s also for people like him that I tell stories. Stories where anything is possible, even when everything seems impossible. Stories that show just how much can happen in this Life.

Today, I know why I survived. And this text—this is my very first applesauce. The one I’m offering to those who, like Gérard, Charlotte, or Florian, never got theirs.

In my universe, the good guy wins in the end. He triumphs. He comes out on top. My stories have happy endings—but not the fake kind. Not tricks to tease a sequel, not tactics to boost revenue. These are real victories. Human victories. Victories torn from pain.

I tell the truth. I tell my truth. I tell what I’ve lived. No theories. No scripted speeches. I speak real. I tell it real. I don’t sugarcoat. I don’t soften the blow. When I talk about suffering, about the pain I’ve endured, I don’t water it down. And I don’t make anything up either. I share the miracles. The ones I’ve witnessed. The ones I’ve lived.

So if you, too, are going through a dark night. If you’ve hit the wall, the ground, the blow, the betrayal. If you no longer know why you’re here or how to keep going—keep this applesauce. It’s for you. There’s nothing miraculous about it. But it holds everything I have to give : A little warmth. A little light. And living proof that you can rise—even after you’ve hit rock bottom. You are not alone.

Until, maybe, our paths cross someday… take care of yourself. Take care of those you love.

Strength & Joy, my friends

STRENGTH & JOY

To everyone navigating the darkness, remember: light exists. 🌟 #PostTraumaticGrowth #HealingJourney #RecoveryIsPossible #YouAreNotAlone #TraumaRecovery #MentalHealthAwareness #HumanStoriesMatter #MeaningAfterTrauma