When Your Mind Starts Slipping: What You See Is Not Always What You Get

This morning, I had an unexpected MRI. Not because I think my tumor is growing. In fact, I do not. That is the part that makes this even more unsettling. This was a precaution. A “just in case.” But the symptoms I have been experiencing—memory lapses, repeating myself, struggling to track things unless I write them down—they are real. And they are getting harder to ignore.

So if the tumor is not coming back—if this is not cancer roaring to life again—then what is happening? What damage is already done that we cannot see? And worse… will it get better before it gets worse?

That is the kind of fear that does not come with answers. That is the kind of fear you carry quietly, tucked behind every smile, every story you hope you have not already told.

Lately, I have found myself forgetting things that used to come naturally. I will tell someone something, then realize I already said it. I will make a plan, then forget if I ever followed through. I need notes for everything—alarms, sticky pads, digital lists—or else thoughts disappear like smoke.

I am 48 years old. And while some people chalk this up to aging, I know better. This is not just getting older. This is something deeper. Something different. And not every 48-year-old has been diagnosed with Glioblastoma.

What people see on the outside is not always what is happening on the inside. Most days, I look “normal.” I laugh, I work, I create. I show up. But inside, something feels like it is shifting. My brain does not feel like it used to. My thoughts take longer. I question myself more. And it makes me wonder what parts of me might be slipping without me even knowing it.

The MRI this morning was just one piece of the puzzle. I also received a referral to a neurologist for cognitive testing. Just hearing those words out loud made it feel more real. “Cognitive testing.” Like someone is going to put a number to how much of my brain is still functioning properly. Like they are going to chart the decline.

It makes me feel like an observer in my own life. Watching and waiting. Hoping that I do not fade away while still standing in the room.

There is something especially cruel about brain cancer. It is not just a fight for your body. It is a fight for your identity. And when you start to lose trust in your own mind, it does something to you. It makes you second-guess everything. Not just your memory—but your worth, your ability, your independence.

And yet, to the outside world, everything looks fine.

I cannot tell you how many times I have smiled when I was quietly terrified. How many times I have told someone I was “doing good” when I had spent the morning panicking over whether I forgot something important. How many times I have written something down three different ways, just to make sure I would not forget it.

It wears on you. Not just the symptoms, but the hiding. The performance of being “okay.”

This is not something you can see on a scan. Not clearly, anyway. And that is what makes it hard. What damage has already been done that no MRI will catch? What parts of my brain are dimming before they go dark?

I wonder sometimes if people notice. If they see the pause in my words. If they catch the repetition. If they think, “He is not quite the same.” Maybe they do. Maybe they are just kind enough not to say it. Or maybe they have no idea.

And maybe that is the hardest part—feeling like I am quietly disappearing behind the version of me everyone still sees.

Because I am still here. I am still fighting. Still writing. Still laughing and living and loving. But some days, it feels like I am clinging to the edges of my mind, holding on tight and hoping it does not let go of me.

If you are reading this and thinking, “I have been there”—then you know. You know how terrifying it is to not trust your own thoughts. You know what it feels like to fear what cannot be fixed. You know the grief of losing pieces of yourself in slow motion.

And if you have never felt that, I hope you never do. But I also hope you understand. That behind every “I’m doing fine” could be a storm. That not all wounds are visible. That not all fights are physical.

I used to lead teams, run departments, manage a hundred things at once. I thrived in chaos. I was known for remembering the details—birthdays, deadlines, everything. That was my thing.

It is not about dying. I have wrestled with death. I have stared it down more than once. But forgetting who I am? Forgetting the people I love? Forgetting why I fought this hard in the first place? That is the fear that keeps me up at night.

So today, I had the MRI. Not because I felt worse—but because I felt unsure. Because when you live with this disease, uncertainty becomes part of the rhythm of your life. You learn to live in the gray. You learn to hold hope and fear in the same hand.

I do not know what the test results will show. I do not know what the next few weeks will bring. But I know this—I am still here. Still telling my story. Still showing up in the ways I can.

And maybe that is enough for now.