Journey so far.

Where This Story Begins

This first post is about my journey so far—mostly the medical side of things, and what day-to-day life has looked like since having a seizure on April 10th, 2025.

Life can change in an instant. A single moment that reshapes how you see everything.

I wish I could say that moment was the seizure I had that Thursday—but deep down, I know it started before then.

Still, that feels like the right place to begin.

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A Season of Highs and Lows

The last few months had been both amazing and incredibly challenging.

Andrew and I had just moved, stepped into new roles at a church we love, and were learning a whole new rhythm of life. At the same time, I lost my uncle and found out my dad has cancer.

So while this should have been one of the best seasons of our lives, I was also carrying a lot of weight.

There were days I felt burned—scorched—mentally just trying to keep my head above water.

With the help of incredible support, I kept going… until I hit a wall.

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The Night Everything Changed

I had just come home from spending a couple of days with my dad, helping get his house ready for extramural care. I knew I needed to start taking things off my plate, especially as I stepped in more to care for him.

That night, I wasn’t planning on going to the church.

But Andrew encouraged me to go—he knew I needed to be around people who loved me.

So I packed my bag and went to practice for Good Friday.

There were young adults decorating the sanctuary for a kids’ event, and I remember feeling content—just being in a room full of people.

I practiced briefly, then headed toward the soundboard to shut things down.

I didn’t even make it up the first flight of stairs.

I suddenly felt off. I couldn’t focus. I tried to speak—but nothing came out.

I knew something was wrong.

I walked back into the sanctuary, flailing my arms to get someone’s attention. I was fully aware I was having stroke-like symptoms and couldn’t communicate.

I remember seeing Andrew walk into the room from the other side, hoping he’d notice me.

And then everything went black.

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The Moment Everything Shifted

He was the first face I saw when I came to—fading in and out of consciousness as paramedics surrounded me.

The rest is a blur. Ambulance. IVs. CT scan. MRI.

And then the words that made my stomach drop:

They found a tumour.

A small tumour, sitting beneath the swelling, pressing on my frontal lobe.

My first thought was simple:

We fight.

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Fear, Faith, and the Unknown

The doctor stepped out to give Andrew and me a moment.

I grabbed his hand, and we prayed.

We cried. We had our moment. And then we placed it in the Lord’s hands.

I wish I could say those were my last tears—but this journey has been full of fear and unknowns.

All I knew was that they wanted to cut into my skull to find out what this tumour was.

MS?

An incurable cancer?

A curable one?

A lesion?

An infection?

It wasn’t until I got home that I realized my deepest fear.

It wasn’t dying.

It wasn’t pain.

It was not getting to live the life Andrew and I had dreamed of.

It was leaving him alone.

It was feeling like I hadn’t fulfilled my calling.

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Learning I Wasn’t Myself

The first few days at home were incredibly hard.

I couldn’t do anything for myself, and Andrew was on constant seizure watch. I cried holding his hand while trying to shower. I cried because I didn’t have the energy to stand at the toaster and make a snack.

When I met with my neurologist, I left with more questions than answers.

They said it was highly unlikely to be MS and more likely a tumour—but they still didn’t know what kind. Every possibility was laid out all at once.

What it did explain, though, were symptoms I had been experiencing for over a year:

Personality changes.

Memory issues.

Brain fog.

Difficulty reasoning.

Poor judgment at times.

Mood swings.

Emotional outbursts.

Moments where I didn’t recognize myself.

The neurologist explained it was the tumour pressing on my brain.

And suddenly, everything made sense.

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Finding Peace in Unexpected Places

I left the hospital exhausted—physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

We met with lawyers and banks, trying to find silver linings wherever we could. The lawyer prayed with us. Our banker was a Christian.

Somewhere along the way, something shifted.

Peace began to settle in.

I learned to let the emotions come, feel them fully—and then place them before the Lord.

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“You’re Not Done Yet”

Good Friday came, and I knew I needed to be with my church family.

It was physically hard, but it gave me life.

That’s when I realized something:

People and prayer are just as important—if not more—than rest.

Being surrounded by worship and community gave me strength I hadn’t felt in a long time.

And as I stood there worshiping, I felt the Lord speak clearly:

“You’re not done yet.”

In that moment, I knew—no matter what this is, I’m going to fight.

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Holding Onto Hope

Saturday night, Andrew and I found ourselves back in the ER at the QEII.

I was seeing double, and we wanted to make sure the swelling hadn’t worsened or that there wasn’t bleeding.

It was a long, exhausting wait.

I was in pain. We were both worn down.

But even then, we found moments to laugh. To let humor exist alongside the hard.

The ER doctor that night was a gift.

He read my first MRI report and, for the first time, offered real encouragement—that this might not be as bad as we feared.

He reminded us that only a biopsy would give definitive answers, but he gave us something we desperately needed:

Hope.

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Facing Reality

We met with the surgeon and scheduled my biopsy for Monday, April 28th.

The appointment went as expected—no clear answers, just confirmation that it was likely a tumour.

He explained the plan: biopsy by incision, likely removal later, and potentially chemo, radiation, or all three.

This time, I asked to see the MRI.

I wasn’t ready before—but I wanted to face what I was up against.

Even a biopsy meant drilling into my skull—into my brain.

I left feeling defeated. Like I was back at square one.

I cried a lot.

Not because I’m afraid of what I have to do—but because of the unknown of what this could be.

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Held Through It All

One of the greatest gifts in all of this has been how close Andrew and I have become.

He has been my rock.

We pray every day. He plays worship music wherever we go. We’ve created rhythms for medication and meals. And not once have I heard him complain.

By the afternoon, I usually have no energy left—and he cares for me so gently. Holding my hand when I’m in pain. Sitting with me while we wait for medication to kick in.

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A Faith That Stays

My faith in the Lord’s promises hasn’t changed.

I have emotions—lots of them—but I’m not doubting Him.

I feel His closeness, and I’m pressing in with everything I have.

I know that ultimately, no matter what happens, everything will be okay.

A friend said to me recently, “There’s no panic in Heaven.”

And that picture has stayed with me.

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You Are Not Alone

I want to share more about how the Lord has been speaking to me through this—but I’ll save that for another post.

Because He is.

I am so grateful for my friends and family.

I’ve learned that when someone is going through something, one of the most powerful things you can do is simply show up.

Pray with them.

Send a message.

Remind them they’re not alone.

Every text, every prayer, every word of encouragement has meant more than I can express—especially from people I haven’t heard from in years.

Thank you.

Truly.