There are days I wake up and don’t recognize my own thoughts.
Not because I forgot who I am—but because the way my brain reacts to the world feels unfamiliar. Louder. Faster. Sharper. Sometimes slower. Sometimes foggy. Sometimes angry in a way I never used to be.
Living with brain metastases is like sharing your head with a stranger who doesn’t ask permission before touching things.
They move your emotions around. They change how pain shows up. They turn minor stress into panic and quiet moments into something heavy and loud. I can feel myself overreacting and still not be able to stop it. I can hear the words coming out of my mouth and not recognize the tone they’re wrapped in.
That part is terrifying.
No one prepares you for the way brain mets mess with your sense of self. Doctors talk about size, location, treatment plans. They don’t warn you that your patience might disappear. That your memory might betray you mid-sentence. That you might feel like you’re watching yourself from the outside, wondering when you’ll get control back.
Some days, I don’t trust my own thoughts.
Is this fear real—or is it swelling?
Is this sadness mine—or chemical?
Is this anger justified—or neurological?
There’s a constant second-guessing that comes with having a sick brain. A quiet shame that creeps in when your reactions don’t match who you know you are.
And then there’s the expectation to still be “normal.”
To still be kind.
Still be patient.
Still be understanding.
Still be grateful.
But my brain is fighting battles my body can’t show you. Migraines that feel like pressure from the inside out. Fatigue that doesn’t respond to rest. Emotional shifts that hit without warning. And the fear—always the fear—that this is just the beginning of another loss.
I grieve the version of me who trusted her mind.
The woman who didn’t have to analyze every emotion for medical meaning. Who could feel without questioning whether her brain was lying to her. Who didn’t need grace for simply existing.
Living with brain mets means learning how to live with uncertainty inside your own head. It means apologizing for things you can’t fully control. It means asking the people who love you to see past your reactions and trust your heart instead.
Some days, I do okay.
Some days, I feel like I’m sharing space with something that doesn’t belong to me—and I’m just trying to coexist.
If you’re living with brain mets too and this feels familiar, please know this: you are not broken. You are not “too much.” You are navigating something unimaginably complex with a brain that is doing its best under impossible circumstances.
And that counts as strength—even when it doesn’t feel like it.
A note to my readers
If this post found you because you’re scared, newly diagnosed, or quietly Googling symptoms at 2 a.m., I want you to know you’re not alone here. This space exists for moments exactly like that. The Resources page was built to help you find information, support, and grounding when everything feels overwhelming.
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Mojo would say: I don’t know what’s happening inside her head. I just know it’s my job to stay close.
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