Inside my head: brain surgery, the aftermath

No one really prepares you for a health challenge — including being diagnosed with a benign brain tumor. (Yes, I know how lucky I am that it wasn’t malignant.) But still, it’s a tumor, and it’s a traumatic diagnosis. So I’ll continue to embrace my role as fate’s unlucky pick— a dramatic but well-earned title, if you ask me. 

I only spent five days in the hospital and I say only because after reading the surgical report, I was genuinely surprised at how well my body recovered from such a procedure. I took my first steps (probably 10–15 at most) less than 24 hours after surgery. I stopped taking painkillers around 48 hours in, not only because I was afraid of the oxy tablet they offered to help me sleep, but because my body was actually coping really well with the pain.

My wound healed perfectly, and I haven’t experienced vertigo or nausea at all. At the two-month post-surgery mark, my husband and I even took a flight to Mallorca — just to change the scenery and, in some way, make up for everything that had just happened.

I only spent one full week at home, yup, on the couch. Following the German recovery system, the best next step after such a procedure was to take part in a neurological rehabilitation program to help me get back on my feet. My husband had returned to work, and luckily, my mom was here — the support I needed to manage the first week of commutes and six-hour daily sessions. These included physical therapy, resistance and strength exercises, concentration tests, and many other 30- to 60-minute tasks, all designed with one main goal: to restore the ability to work after illness or injury.

After completing the 20 mandatory days, I regained a sense of independence and mobility. I still got tired earlier in the evening compared to before the surgery, but the progress was undeniable. Still, I’d say the most valuable part of the program was the space it gave me to emotionally process what had just happened — in a safe, structured, and closely monitored environment.

Woah, what just happened?

To be completely honest, I think I was only able to process what had just happened four or five weeks after surgery. It all happened so fast, and I was so focused on managing my facial paralysis that I completely forgot to deal with the emotions or to process everything that came with the diagnosis and treatment.

It involved my immediate family, my in-laws, my closest friends, my employer, my colleagues… It felt like a whole support network had formed around me to make sure I was okay. And there I was, in the middle of it all — trying to get to know this new version of myself I saw in the mirror, while trying not to panic about the unfamiliar sense of insecurity that comes with the possibility of living with a permanent disability.

It was too much. Too much to process. Too much to digest. Too much to unpack. But there was no turning back — it was all done, actually done pretty well — and it had to happen.

I’m lucky I’m not the kind of person who gets stuck in the “Why me?” or “What did I do to deserve this?” mindset. I moved on fairly quickly and realized something important: the world doesn’t stop just because something shitty happens to you — whether personally or health-wise. The show must go on.

The world might pause for you, but that’s where it ends. Bills still need to be paid, and time becomes this strange companion that shifts meaning completely. What once felt long now feels irrelevant, and what you expect to happen immediately ends up feeling eternal.

This made me realize something I already knew, but that has now truly materialized. I am deeply loved by, and incredibly love, my husband, my parents, and my brother.I truly hit the jackpot with my parents-in-law and sister-in-law. I love my friends. I feel deeply fortunate for my job, my coworkers, and everyone who cared enough to send me a message, flowers, or simply good vibes. To everyone who thought of me during this process and showed compassion — and to every doctor and medical professional who took such good care of me: THANK YOU.

You helped give me the strength to stand up and keep going. You reminded me: I have a story to tell, and I’m not going to let this take me down. 

My recovery is far from over, but I feel like I’m on the right track. I don’t know — none of us do — what the future will bring, but I believe it can only get better. I feel lucky, happy, and very proud to be sharing my story with you.