I never imagined a beach trip with friends would mark the beginning of one of the most pivotal chapters of my life.
What started as a silly game with my daughter—her whispering into my “good ear”—suddenly became something more.
A comment from a friend.
A routine hearing test.
And then, a phrase I’ll never forget: “Sometimes, this is caused by a tumor.”
In that instant, everything shifted.
What followed was a turning point.
With my identity. With my worth.
With the lie I had lived for too long: that achievement equals value.
“You Know That’s Not Normal, Right?”
I’d said it a hundred times, maybe more.
“Elaina, you know you’ve got to talk into Mommy’s good ear.”
She thought it was hilarious—our little game of whispering on the left, running to the right. It had become a routine I didn’t think twice about. Until that beach trip with our close circle of friends.
Ranaye, who has always known how to say what others won’t, looked me directly in the eye and said, “You know that’s not normal, right? You should really get that checked out.”
Her words stuck.
A few weeks later, I sat in a small exam room while the audiologist read my results. “You’ve lost all high-frequency hearing in your left ear. Sometimes, this is caused by a tumor. I’m ordering an MRI.”
A tumor?
That word dropped into my chest like a boulder. Heavy. Immovable.
The Ping Pong Ball
April 2015.
I left the imaging center with a CD in my hand and the technician’s voice echoing in my ears.
What she said was: “You’re going to need to call your doctor.”
What I heard was: “You’re going to die.”
At home, I slowly slid the CD into my laptop. The scan popped up on the screen—and there it was. A bright, unmistakable circle nestled in my head like a ping pong ball that clearly didn’t belong there.
I didn’t call Ed. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even sit down.
Instead, I laced up my running shoes.
Running has always been where I go to make sense of the world. That day, I ran like my life depended on it—eight miles of breathless sobbing and aching disbelief.
I thought about Ed and Elaina. I thought about my mother having to bury her daughter. About what I wanted to be remembered for. About funerals and unfulfilled dreams. About being 43 and not ready to go and the irony of running eight miles on the day I found out I had a brain tumor.
And then, I did something even stranger—
I went to work.
Achievement Still Had a Grip on Me
I had a 2 p.m. meeting that day.
And I showed up.
Because in my mind, being there proved I still mattered. I had spent so many years tying my value to performance that even with a ping pong ball in my brain, I couldn’t let go of the belief that showing up equaled worth.
I sat in that meeting, barely present, trying to pretend everything was fine.
Nine days later, I got the official diagnosis: a giant vestibular schwannoma.
Slow-growing. Life-altering.
That day was the day before Elaina’s 8th birthday, and as she blew out her candles, I wondered if I’d be there for her 9th birthday.
What My Brain Tumor Taught Me
If there’s one truth I wish I could whisper into the heart of every high achiever, it’s this:
You don’t have to earn your worth.
You don’t have to prove your value.
Love isn’t transactional. Worthiness isn’t conditional.
You are enough—without the performance, without the titles, without the spreadsheet of wins.
Curve Balls
I have been lucky enough to recover from the multiple curve balls life has thrown at me. I promise you this: you can too.
If you’re standing in the middle of your own curveball moment, wondering what’s left when the dust settles, know this: you’re not alone. And… You’re still whole.
That’s why I wrote You Don’t Have to Achieve to Be Loved. It’s a book for anyone and everyone who is in the middle of a curve ball — either thrown at them without their asking, or realizing they need one to change their life.
Want to start your own journey toward lasting change and deeper purpose?
Order your copy of You Don’t Have to Achieve to Be Loved today.
#YouAreEnough #Resilience #SelfLove #TheNextChapter
