2025 was supposed to be my year. My husband and I had just bought a home in 2024, eager to settle in, be closer to family, and start our life together. Everything seemed to be falling into place until suddenly, it wasn’t.
The Symptoms
In January 2025, I woke in the middle of the night feeling like my world was spinning – vertigo, nausea, vomiting, and a clogged ear. Panic-stricken, I woke my husband and literally blurted out, “What if I have a brain tumor?” We assumed it was the onset of a stomach bug and eventually went back to sleep, completely unaware of the reality we were about to face.
The next day, my condition worsened. I couldn’t keep anything down, and my balance deteriorated to the point I needed help walking even a few steps. Dehydration ultimately sent us to urgent care, where IV fluids barely made a dent in my symptoms. The doctor checked my ear canal, found nothing abnormal, and suggested it could be an inner ear problem.
The Diagnosis
A visit to the ENT and a failed hearing test later, I was first diagnosed with sudden sensorineural hearing loss. I immediately began aggressive steroid treatments – oral and injectable – in a desperate attempt to restore hearing. But after four weeks, there was no improvement. I was still profoundly deaf in my left ear.
As standard protocol, an MRI was scheduled. I already knew something bigger was going on. I could feel it.
Approximately 1 in 100,000 Americans develop an acoustic neuroma each year, according to the NIH. I knew I was that one, and the scan confirmed it: there was a tumor pressing against my vestibulocochlear nerve, which is responsible for balance and hearing. Despite its small size and noncancerous nature, it had already taken my hearing for good.
Processing the News
The diagnosis was terrifying, yet it came with a brief wave of relief. For weeks, I had obsessed over what caused my hearing loss, whether it would come back, and if I could’ve prevented it. Now I had answers. But that relief quickly turned into fear.
Friends and family tried to comfort me with, “At least it’s benign!” – a phrase that, while well-intentioned and a positive perspective, left me conflicted. What hit me hardest was how unfairly minimizing it all felt. “Benign” sounds harmless. Like it’s no big deal. But the truth is, it is a big deal.
Yes, of course, I was fortunate it was operable and noncancerous — but that didn’t undo the damage already done or what came next. Just because it wasn’t cancer doesn’t mean it wasn’t devastating. It didn’t mean what I was about to go through would be painless or easy.
The Surgery
Heading into surgery, two thoughts consumed me: What if they don’t get all of it, and I live with this forever? Or what if I lose function in my face? The facial nerve runs right next to the tumor location, and I knew that weakness or even paralysis were very real risks.
My first memory after waking up was my surgeon asking me to smile and squeeze my eyes shut. I could. Then I asked, “Did you get it all?” And he replied, “I got the whole damn thing.”
That moment – relief, shock, gratitude, everything at once – is forever etched in my mind. I was still here. And I could still smile. But the truth is, that moment was only the beginning. What followed was harder than I ever imagined.
A few days after the initial eight-hour brain surgery, I needed a second craniotomy to address a cerebral spinal fluid (CSF) leak. That surgery knocked me back to square one. I had to relearn how to walk — not once, but twice — complicated by a severe allergic reaction to a drug used during the second procedure.
After two weeks in the hospital, I went home, only to be readmitted twice more for additional surgeries. Setback after setback tested me physically and emotionally.
The Recovery
Recovery was long, and rebuilding my strength was difficult.
It wasn’t until then that I fully understood what this tumor had cost me – and how hard it would be to explain. “Benign” makes people exhale. I couldn’t then, and I still can’t.
Hearing. Balance. The basic confidence that your body will do what you ask it to do. These permanent losses don’t fit neatly into a comeback story, but they stay with you, even when they are easy to miss from the outside.
Looking Forward
While 2025 did not go the way I had planned, this tumor wasn’t the end of my story. It was the beginning of a new chapter and a “new normal.”
I wouldn’t have chosen this path, but it showed me that I’m certainly stronger than I realized. I see life, family, and health through a sharper lens now. I feel the little things deeper — the quiet moments, the people who show up, and the fact that I’m still here.
We don’t get to choose our mountains in life, but we do get to choose how we climb them. And thanks to my support system, I have the strength to keep climbing — one step at a time.
Last Updated: March 4, 2026
