Brain Tumor Awareness Month: From Diagnosis to Now

It has been a hell of a ride. I do not know how else to say it. One day, I was living my life—going to work, planning holidays, laughing with my Husband—and the next, I was being told I had brain cancer. Glioblastoma. A word I had never said before, now tattooed onto my identity. It was November 2023 when my life flipped upside down. And now here we are—May. My second Brain Tumor Awareness Month. My second time trying to make sense of everything this disease has taken, given, and changed.

So I want to tell my story. Not the sugar-coated version. The real one. Step by step. Because if there is one thing this cancer has taught me, it is that honesty—raw, uncomfortable, sometimes gut-wrenching honesty—is more healing than hope packaged in clichés.

November: The Diagnosis

There it was. A mass in my brain. And a sentence I still cannot say without shaking: “We believe this is Glioblastoma.”

I was numb. Not just in my body, but in my soul. You hear stories. You see fundraisers and ribbons. But you never think it will be your brain lighting up on the MRI.

The first few days were a blur—tears, Google searches I wish I had never clicked on, calls to family where I pretended to be okay just so they wouldn’t fall apart.

December: Surgery, Scans, and Sleepless Nights

December was chaos. There was the biopsy, the fear of waiting, the thousand what-ifs crashing like waves in my head. Then came surgery. I remember the fear as they rolled me into that cold, bright operating room. I remember wondering if I would wake up. And I did. But nothing was the same.

Even after the tumor was removed, the shadow of it stayed. Glioblastoma is not the kind of cancer that lets you celebrate. It is a boomerang. You throw everything at it—chemo, radiation, faith—and it still finds a way to haunt your next scan.

I had never felt more tired. Not just physically, but emotionally. Every MRI became a loaded gun.

January to March: Trying to Breathe Again

The new year came, but I did not feel new. I felt broken, raw, and afraid. But I also felt something else—alive.

I started to notice things differently. The way my dog looked at me in the morning. The smell of coffee. The feeling of grass under my feet. You start to cling to the smallest things when you are walking through the fire. And those little things? They kept me going.

I spent time with my Husband. We drove to Mendocino, one of our favorite places. We walked by the cliffs, breathing salt air, holding hands like we used to before cancer. That trip saved me. It reminded me that I was still here. Still capable of joy. Still capable of love.

April: Starting This Blog

I started writing. I didn’t have a plan, or a brand, or even a vision. I just needed to get it out. The fear. The anger. The absurdity of having to live your life with a death sentence constantly hanging in the background.

I never wanted to be someone who writes about cancer. But I needed a way to fight back. And this blog? It became my armor. Not the kind that hides you—but the kind that says, “Here I am. Scarred, scared, but still standing.”

Writing allowed me to tell the truth without having to smile through it.

May: My First Brain Tumor Awareness Month

Last May was my first time celebrating Brain Tumor Awareness Month. And honestly? It was weird. I didn’t know what to feel. Grateful to be alive. Angry to be in this fight. Inspired by others. Crushed by survivor’s guilt.

But it felt important to mark it. Not with a pity party, but with purpose.

That is when I decided to start my store—JohnVsGBM.

I wanted to create something bigger than myself. Something for the fighters, the caregivers, the ones who never get a break but keep showing up anyway. I started designing T-shirts, hoodies, hats. Things I wished existed when I was first diagnosed. Stuff that wasn’t cheesy or depressing. Apparel that actually made you feel like a warrior.

And people responded. Orders started coming in. Messages from strangers poured into my inbox: “Your story gave me hope,” “My dad has GBM—thank you for this shirt,” “This made me feel seen.” That right there? That was everything.

Now: My Second Brain Tumor Awareness Month

And here we are. May again.

I never thought I would see this one. But I have. I am still here. I am still standing. I am still writing.

This month feels different. I am not just surviving anymore. I am building something. A voice. A movement. A legacy.

I have over 285 brain cancer awareness products in my store. I have connected with families, patients, survivors. I have shared my story, cried with strangers, laughed at things that would make most people squirm. And somehow, through all of it, I have lived.

Looking Ahead: The Northern California Brain Tumor Walk

Next month, in June, I will walk in the Northern California Brain Tumor Walk. That sentence means more than I can explain. Because it is not just a walk. It is a declaration.

A year ago, I was unsure if I would still be here. Now, I will walk beside other survivors. I will wear a shirt I designed. I will stand with people who know what it is like to hear those awful words and somehow choose to fight anyway.

I do not know what the future holds. None of us do. But I know this: I will not waste what I have been given. Every scan, every scar, every second—it has led me here.

To Anyone Reading This

If you are newly diagnosed: I see you. I was you. The fear is real. The grief is real. But so is the strength you do not even know you have yet.

If you are a caregiver: Thank you. We may not always say it, but your love is oxygen.

If you are a survivor: Keep going. Keep telling your story. It matters more than you know.

And if you are just someone who found this post by accident: Maybe you were meant to read it. Maybe someone you love is going through this. Maybe you are. Either way—thank you for being here.

Final Thoughts

Brain Tumor Awareness Month is not just about ribbons and hashtags. It is about remembering that behind every diagnosis is a life—a messy, beautiful, terrifying, wonderful life.

Mine included.

So here’s to another year of beating the odds. Of living loudly. Of loving fiercely. Of walking for those who cannot. And of never, ever giving up.