“I never imagined I’d be writing about brain surgery, hearing loss, or life with a tumor. But two years ago, an acoustic neuroma entered my world unexpectedly, and it’s a story I feel ready to share—partly for myself, and partly for anyone else who might be walking this path.

Two years ago, I woke up with what felt like water stuck in my ear. Annoying, yes—but nothing serious, or so I thought. I had no idea that tiny sensation was the start of a journey that would lead me through hearing loss, surgery, and learning resilience in ways I never imagined.

One ordinary morning, I woke up completely fine. By evening, though, my right ear felt plugged—like the pressure you feel on an airplane or after swimming. It wasn’t painful, just uncomfortable. I went to the doctor, and steroids were prescribed. I didn’t think much of it at the time.

A week later, things escalated. I woke up with a pounding headache. I’m not someone who normally gets headaches, so this immediately stood out. Nothing helped—not even medication. By that night, the pain was so bad I couldn’t lift my head from the pillow without using my hands to support it. After a few hours, the pain subsided on its own but this time I didn’t ignore it. Instead, I went to an urgent care, and they added more steroids before sending me home.

When I finally saw an ENT, the news was devastating. He told me I had lost 90% of the hearing in my right ear. The way he said it—brief, disconnected, and without any empathy—left me stunned and alone. I must have cried for days. A part of me even felt guilty, as if I had somehow caused this by not acting sooner.

Thankfully, my cousin, a neurosurgeon, urged me to get an MRI at the earliest. That scan revealed the true culprit: a 2.2 cm acoustic neuroma, a benign tumor pressing against my hearing nerve. Suddenly, my world shifted from wanting my hearing back to facing a brain tumor that needed to be treated.

The next step was overwhelming: surgery or radiation? Both had risks, both carried unknowns. I was fortunate to have two leading doctors in the family—a neurosurgeon and a radiation oncologist—who patiently walked me through the options and connected me with experts.

 My family and friends were incredible. They stood by me through it all. Their support felt like a safety net- solid and unwavering. I will never forget that love and will always carry that gratitude for the rest of my life. 

Amongst it all, the fears lingered and were real. Surgery meant I would lose hearing permanently on one side. There were risks of balance issues, facial paralysis, numbness, or even changes in how I looked and smiled. At night, I often lay awake thinking: Would I be able to walk properly? Dance again? Ride a bike? Would people see me as different? I didn’t share much of this—I kept most of it within, the weight of my worries pressing hardest at night.

To cope, I focused on the small things I could control: going for walks, cooking meals my family could use while I recovered, preparing for the days ahead.

In time, the whirlwind of tests, decisions, and fears settled into acceptance. My life didn’t return to what it was before, but I learned to navigate a new version of it—one that still held joy, connection, and purpose.

⸻

Lessons I’ve Learned in the Last Two years.

Looking back now, my acoustic neuroma journey wasn’t just about medical treatment—it was about facing uncertainty, finding resilience, and accepting change.

Here are a few lessons I carry with me:

    •    Trust your instincts

If something feels wrong with your health, keep asking questions and push for answers.

    •    Doctors matter, but so does empathy.

A compassionate doctor makes a world of difference. If you don’t feel heard, seek another opinion.

    •    Support is everything.

Family and friends – lean on them. Their strength becomes yours when you don’t have enough of your own.

    •    It’s important to grieve.

Losing part of yourself—like hearing—takes time to process. Healing isn’t only physical, it’s emotional too.

    •    You are still you.

Even with changes to my hearing and fears about appearance or balance, I’ve learned that who I am at my core hasn’t changed.

Sharing this is my way of making peace with what happened, and maybe helping someone else going through something similar. If you or someone you know is facing an acoustic neuroma, know that you are not alone. The journey is challenging, but there is life, love, and hope on the other side.” -Nikita