Brain Cancer Awareness Day
What better day to share this than Brain Cancer Awareness Day?
This is going to be a difficult one for me to write, because fitness was such a huge part of my life before my diagnosis.
For years, fitness was more than just exercise. It was my outlet. It was where I could unplug, wrestle through my thoughts, challenge myself, and focus on becoming stronger, both physically and mentally. There was something incredibly therapeutic about getting under a barbell, pushing through a difficult workout, and discovering what my body was capable of.
These days, that looks very different.
And I’m not going to lie, I’ve been struggling with it.
I miss what my body used to be able to do. I miss lifting heavy weights, challenging myself, and feeling strong. There have been countless days when Andrew has come home to find me in tears. Nights when I’ve cried out of sheer frustration because I was so fatigued that all I could manage that day was sitting on the couch, never mind getting through my rehab exercises.
It’s been tough.
And I don’t share that because I want pity. I share it because I want people to understand just how much fitness meant to me, and how difficult it has been to navigate this new reality.
I’ve had three brain surgeries in ten months, and I’m missing approximately a quarter of my brain.
That’s a LOT for a body to recover from.
After my second major surgery, there were days during that first week when I genuinely didn’t know if I would ever walk again. Even now, something as simple as holding a pen and writing is still incredibly difficult.
When I stop and think about everything my body has endured, it’s honestly a miracle that I’m able to do what I can today.
But knowing that doesn’t always make the difficult days easier.
When Fitness Was My World
Before Andrew and I moved to Grand Manan, I was a CrossFit coach in Bedford. Fitness wasn’t just something I enjoyed; it was woven into my everyday life.
When we moved to the island, I quickly realized that the community centre didn’t have quite what I needed for powerlifting. So, naturally, I found a way to build a gym in our basement.
Because apparently moving to an island wasn’t going to stop me from lifting heavy things!
Fitness was a part of who I was. I loved the discipline, the challenge, the community, and the constant pursuit of getting stronger.
And while I know that my identity was never supposed to be rooted in what my body could accomplish, losing that part of my life has still felt like grieving something I loved.
That’s something I’ve had to learn to make room for.
A Different Kind of Strength
My rehabilitation journey has been a long road, and while I’ve made significant progress physically, there are still challenges that people don’t necessarily see.
Lately, a lot of my work has been cognitive. My focus, concentration, and short-term memory are all things I’m continuing to work on. Fatigue is still a major hurdle, and large, busy environments can leave me feeling incredibly overstimulated.
Some days, even ordinary tasks require an extraordinary amount of effort.
It’s humbling, especially when you’re used to being someone who thrives on pushing yourself.
I’m learning that strength doesn’t always look like adding more weight to a barbell.
Sometimes strength looks like showing up to rehab when you’re exhausted. Sometimes it’s choosing to rest when every part of you wants to push harder. Sometimes it’s celebrating a movement that would have seemed insignificant a few years ago.
And sometimes, strength looks like allowing yourself to cry, acknowledging that something is hard, and trying again tomorrow.
Enter Blended Athletics
This past August, I stumbled across a CrossFit gym in Dartmouth called Blended Athletics, which was hosting a fundraiser specifically for brain cancer research called Summer Bash Against Brain Cancer.
Naturally, that caught my attention.
But when I learned the story behind it, I was genuinely speechless.
One of their coaches, Jordan Forbes, knows firsthand just how devastating brain cancer can be. After losing three people close to him to this disease, he felt compelled to do something.
And he did.
This summer, Blended Athletics raised just over $68,000 for brain cancer research at the QEII.
Sixty-eight thousand dollars.
For brain cancer research.
At a gym.
He’s been doing this fundraiser for 5 years now.
I honestly don’t think I can adequately express just how meaningful that was to me.
Here was a community built around something I had loved for years, coming together to support research for the very disease that had changed my life.
It felt like two completely different parts of my world colliding in the most beautiful way.
Why This Matters So Much
As I mentioned in a previous blog post, brain cancer is incredibly challenging to treat.
One of the reasons is the blood-brain barrier. It’s designed to protect our brains from harmful substances, but that same protective barrier also makes it difficult for many treatments to reach brain tumours effectively.
I’m incredibly fortunate to be taking a newer targeted therapy, and my hope is that it will help give me many more decades of life.
But the reality of my diagnosis is something I live with every day.
With my particular type of brain cancer, survival estimates can sometimes be measured in decades, but there is tremendous variation from person to person. Some people live much longer than expected, while others face a more aggressive course.
Those statistics are difficult to sit with.
And while I firmly believe that Jesus has the final say over my life, I also recognize how incredibly important medical research is.
We need more treatment options. We need continued advancements. We need researchers who are willing to tackle the complexities of this disease and keep moving the needle forward.
Every breakthrough matters.
Every new treatment matters.
And every dollar raised toward that research represents hope for people like me and for countless families who will hear the words “You have a brain tumour” in the years to come.
That’s why this fundraiser meant so much.
It wasn’t simply about raising money. It was about people choosing to stand alongside those of us living with this disease, even when they didn’t have to.
A Community That Shows Up
Andrew and I went to support the fundraiser that day, and I had the opportunity to meet Jordan and the crew at Blended Athletics.
One of the people there was actually an old friend of mine, Heather.
I’ve known Heather for years, going all the way back to when I worked at Apt. 3 in Lower Sackville. She would come in most mornings after her workout, and we’d chat about our shared love of fitness.
Heather is genuinely one of the best humans I’ve had the honour of calling a friend.
She’s the kind of person who gives her whole heart to causes that matter. I remember her shaving her head years ago to raise money for leukemia research, and she’s continued to show up for meaningful causes ever since.
Seeing her there was another reminder of just how special the fitness community can be.
I was blown away by the support, generosity, and genuine compassion of everyone involved.
When I think about everything that has happened over the last year and a half, I still find it surreal.
I never imagined that brain cancer would become part of my story.
I certainly never imagined that I’d go from coaching CrossFit and powerlifting to relearning how to walk and struggling to hold a pen.
But here we are.
And while this journey has taken so much from me, it has also taught me things I don’t think I could have learned any other way.
Learning to Live Differently
I’ve learned that I’m capable of doing incredibly hard things.
I’ve learned that progress isn’t always linear, and that healing rarely happens on the timeline we’d prefer.
I’ve learned that my worth isn’t determined by how productive I am, how much I can lift, or how much I accomplish in a day.
And perhaps most importantly, I’ve learned that my diagnosis does not define me.
I’m still healing. I’m still working through physical and cognitive challenges. I’m still figuring out what this new rhythm of life looks like.
But I am not without hope.
In fact, in many ways, I’m more hopeful than I’ve ever been.
I don’t take the ordinary moments for granted the way I once did. I’ve learned to appreciate the smallest victories, the quiet moments, the people who show up, and the gift of simply being here.
And speaking of victories, I’ve had a couple recently!
Yesterday, I had a really positive appointment at the rehab centre. I’ve been given the green light to start incorporating single-leg deadlifts with five pounds, along with some overhead movements.
Five pounds!
If you had told the powerlifting version of me that I’d be celebrating a five-pound deadlift, I probably would have laughed.
But today? That’s a HUGE win.
And last week, I passed my driver’s evaluation!
After everything that has happened, these milestones mean more to me than I can put into words.
They’re reminders that I’m still moving forward, even when progress feels painfully slow.
I’m learning to take things one day at a time, listen to my body, give myself grace, and embrace this new season of life.
My Strength Looks Different Now, but My Hope Hasn’t Changed
One of the biggest things I’ve wrestled with throughout this journey is the tension between trusting God and grieving what I’ve lost.
Because the truth is, you can have unwavering faith in Jesus and still have days when you’re completely overwhelmed.
You can believe that God is good and still cry over what your body can no longer do.
You can be grateful to be alive and still grieve the life you had before.
Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.
I’ve had moments of frustration, sadness, fear, and exhaustion. Moments when I’ve questioned why this happened and moments when I’ve struggled to recognize the person I’ve become.
But through all of it, my faith in Jesus has only grown deeper.
Not because everything has gone the way I wanted it to, but because I’ve experienced His faithfulness in the middle of circumstances I never would have chosen.
I’ve come to understand the words of 2 Corinthians 12:9 in a much more personal way:
“My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”
For someone who spent so many years pursuing physical strength, there’s something incredibly profound about learning to depend on a strength that isn’t my own.
I used to measure progress in pounds lifted, personal records, and physical accomplishments.
Now, some days, progress looks like getting through my rehab exercises, remembering something I struggled with yesterday, or simply having enough energy to enjoy time with the people I love.
And I’m learning that those victories are no less meaningful.
I still believe in healing. I still pray for it. I still believe that God is capable of doing far more than I could ever ask or imagine.
But I’ve also learned that my faith cannot depend on whether my circumstances change.
Jesus is still good on the days I make progress, and He’s still good on the days I spend crying on the couch.
My hope isn’t rooted in a perfect MRI, a promising treatment, or even the possibility of regaining everything I’ve lost.
Those are things I pray for, work toward, and deeply hope to see.
But my ultimate hope is rooted in Jesus, and that is something brain cancer cannot take away from me.
At the same time, I am incredibly grateful for the researchers, medical professionals, fundraisers, and communities like Blended Athletics who are working toward a future with better treatments and better outcomes.
I don’t believe faith and medicine are in competition. I believe God can work through the incredible minds, compassion, and dedication of people who are fighting to make a difference.
And I’m thankful for every single one of them.
I don’t know exactly what the coming years will look like. There are still plenty of unknowns, and I’m learning to be okay with not having all the answers.
What I do know is that I’m not finished.
I still have goals. I still have dreams. I still have a life I want to live fully, and a God I want to glorify through it.
Maybe I’ll lift heavy again one day. I certainly hope so.
But for now, I’ll celebrate my five-pound deadlifts, the ability to walk, the milestones that once seemed impossible, and every little step forward.
Because strength looks different in this season.
And perhaps that’s not such a bad thing.
I’m not the same person I was before brain cancer. But I’m still here, still growing, still believing, and still becoming.
And by the grace of God, I’m going to keep moving forward.
One day, one step, and yes, one five-pound deadlift at a time.
To Jordan, Heather, and everyone at Blended Athletics: thank you. Thank you for using something you love to make a difference in the lives of people like me. Your compassion, generosity, and dedication mean more than you could possibly know.
And to anyone else walking through a season where life looks nothing like you imagined: your story isn’t over. Your worth hasn’t changed. And even here, in the middle of the unknown, there is still room for hope.
