Six months ago, I sat in my doctor’s office expecting to be told what most women in their mid-40s hear at some point: that perimenopause had arrived with its grab-bag of inconvenient symptoms: hot flushes, fatigue and brain fog. I had been chalking it all up to hormones, stress and the chaos of solo parenting two young children during the week while juggling a career.
But my bloodwork suggested something else. “It could be stress,” my doctor said, “or it could be a brain tumour.”
I laughed, awkwardly. To me, the answer was obvious. Of course it was stress. Of course it was the daily grind, the late nights, the early mornings, the endless balancing act. Tumour wasn’t even in my vocabulary. Until, of course, it was.
That Sunday, the phone rang. The MRI had confirmed it: a small tumour. Benign, but misbehaving.
The unexpected clarity of a scare
The word “tumour” has a way of clearing out mental clutter. Suddenly, the emails, the toys scattered on the floor, the unsent school parent WhatsApp group replies – all the things I normally obsessed over – melted into the background. What stayed was stark and simple: my children, my health, my life.
My husband and I packed up the kids and drove to Ras Al Khaimah. Enjoyed the mangroves, the quiet, the sunsets.
I began treatment when we returned. Medication shrank the tumour and stabilised my hormones, though the dizziness I experienced left me questioning whether to keep pushing through as I always had. For years, I had worn busyness like armour, priding myself on coping no matter what. But here was something larger at play, a message from the universe: I had been taking my body, and my time on this earth, for granted.
It wasn’t a tragedy. It was a wake-up call.
Lessons I wish I’d learnt earlier
This is not a “woe is me” story. It’s a gratitude story. Because six months on, my treatment has worked. The tumour shrank. I am healthy, lucky and aware in a way I wasn’t before. And I find myself wanting to tell my younger self, and maybe even you, what I now know deep in my bones.
Put the phone down. Life doesn’t exist in the scroll, it’s happening in the small, ordinary moments around us: the child who wants to show you their drawing, the sun streaming through the window, the cup of coffee still warm in your hands.
Don’t stress the small stuff. The things you’re agonising over – the messy house before visitors, morning rush hours and traffic jams, the work emails you haven’t answered – will not matter in a year. Control what you can, let go of what you can’t.
Spend time with the people you love. Don’t wait for the perfect free weekend or a holiday abroad. Connection happens in the here and now, over a shared meal, a walk, a laugh. You’ll also notice who shows up for you and who doesn’t. Believe that.
Be present. It sounds cliched, but presence is the currency of a life well lived. You can’t buy it back later.
Write down your life goals. Otherwise, they float away like daydreams. Believe… “you may say I'm a dreamer … but I'm not the only one”. More seriously, once they are on paper, you have something to steer towards.
Know what’s important. And prioritise it, unapologetically.
You can’t pour from an empty cup. Rest is not laziness, it’s maintenance.
Don’t be afraid to say no. Equally, don’t be afraid to say yes. Sometimes the scariest word is exactly what’s needed.
Be kind. Always, to yourself and to others.
A gentler, braver way to live
I share these not because I think I’ve unlocked some secret wisdom. Far from it. I’m still juggling, still tired, still making mistakes. But the scare shook something loose. It reminded me that life is not a rehearsal, and that waiting for “the right time” is just another way of saying never.
There is no perfect balance between work, family and self. There is only the choice to live fully in whatever moment you’re given. Some days that will mean missing a call so you can eat pizza on the floor with your kids. Other days it might mean saying yes to a new adventure, even if it scares you.
Gratitude in the aftermath
I am lucky. I got the gentlest of nudges compared to what so many others endure. A tiny health scare that was resolved – I'm extremely grateful for that. But it was enough to tilt my perspective, to bring into focus what had been blurred by years of rushing and striving for success.
Because here’s the truth: we don’t have to wait for the crisis. We don’t have to be stuck. Life is ours for the taking – not in grand, dramatic gestures, but in the daily choice to show up, to notice, to love, to live.
And if my doctor’s phone call taught me anything, it’s this: start now.
My brain tumour is smaller, but my life, in a way, feels bigger.
