I asked the universe to hit me over the head with the answer.
At 42, Erica stood at the threshold of reinvention — one exam away from a new life — when the universe answered her half-joking prayer with a Grade 3 brain tumour. Over eighteen months of surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy, she chose not to be defined by diagnosis but shaped by it, protecting her children, finishing her degree, and quietly deciding that illness would be the prologue, not the story. Now, three months into recovery, she is translating that ordeal into purpose, launching a nutrition business built on the belief that strength is something you can cultivate even when everything is working against you.
- A month of dismissed symptoms — dizziness, brain fog, shoulder pain — ended with a radiologist telling Erica she could not drive herself home, and a neurosurgical team already waiting.
- The Grade 3 diagnosis landed like a verdict: aggressive, on the edge of worsening, and forcing a mother of three to confront whether her youngest child would remember her face.
- Rather than surrender to fear, Erica built a deliberate architecture of resilience — limiting who knew, shielding her children from the word 'cancer,' and sitting her final university exam one week after a full craniotomy.
- Seven months into chemotherapy her blood counts stopped recovering, her weight dropped, and her oncologist was quietly astonished she had held on that long — yet every week she walked into the clinic smiling.
- Three months post-treatment, quarterly MRIs have replaced dread with perspective, and the question she asked herself during meditation — what am I meant to do now? — has found its answer in BellaPure, a nutrition business born from the inside of the hardest year of her life.
Erica was 42 and almost finished — six years of night classes away from a Food Science degree, one exam and a lab report from the pivot she had been planning for years. She had even joked that the universe would have to hit her over the head to show her the way. Then it did.
The symptoms crept in quietly: dizziness, brain fog, neck pain she attributed to perimenopause. When she finally had it checked, a radiologist told her she couldn't drive home. A neurosurgical team was waiting. The results, after two weeks that felt like a nightmare, confirmed Grade 3 — aggressive, on the edge of becoming worse. Sitting in the car with her husband, she cried and thought about her three children, her three-year-old, whether she would be remembered. Then she dried her tears and made a decision: this was one year of a long life she intended to keep living.
The surgeons removed the entire tumour and surrounding tissue. She walked out two days later with no brain damage and her sense of humour intact. She never asked for her prognosis. She and her family told the children she had a mass that had been removed and that harsh medicine might make her tired or cause her hair to fall out — the words cancer and tumour were never used. When her hair began to go during radiation, she told herself she was shedding her skin for the life ahead.
A week after her craniotomy, she completed her final lab report and sat her exam. The medical team couldn't believe it. She made it through six and a half weeks of daily radiation without missing a single swimming lesson except the week of surgery itself. Then came twelve months of chemotherapy. After seven months, her blood counts stopped recovering and her oncologist later admitted they were surprised she had lasted that long — but every week she walked in smiling, and every week the staff looked at each other and said: she's still going. Eighteen months in total.
Now three months into recovery, she has quarterly MRIs that she has come to see as a blessing rather than a threat. Somewhere in the middle of treatment, during meditation, she asked herself again what she was meant to do. The answer is BellaPure — a nutrition business aimed at helping people build their strength when the world feels like it's against them. Because she has been there. And she wants to help others become the healthiest version of themselves to get through whatever life is throwing at them.
Erica was 42 and almost finished. After six years of night classes and weekend study, she was one exam and a lab report away from her degree in Food Science and Human Nutrition. She had already spent two decades in business and finance. This was supposed to be the year she pivoted—toward her own venture, or a new role somewhere else. She didn't know which yet. She remembers joking to a friend that the universe would have to hit her over the head to show her the way forward.
Then it did.
The symptoms arrived quietly over the course of a month in late 2024. A few dizzy spells. Some brain fog. Neck and shoulder pain that she assumed was low blood pressure or perimenopause. Nothing that sounded like what she imagined when she thought the words "brain tumour." But when she finally went to get it checked, a radiologist looked at her and said she couldn't drive home. A neurosurgical team was waiting at the hospital. She was terrified. But Erica is a positive person by nature, and once the shock settled, she made a decision: she would tell herself—and everyone around her—that it was benign, that it would be okay.
The surgeon disagreed. The swelling was too large. The results came back after two weeks of waiting that felt like a nightmare. Grade 3. Aggressive. On the edge of becoming worse. She sat in the car with her husband on the way home and cried, thinking about her three children—whether she would see them finish school, whether her three-year-old would even remember her face. But she dried her tears and compartmentalized. This was happening. She was going to get through it, and not just survive it but come out healthier. She was already 42. One year of treatment was a low percentage of a life she planned to keep living. One day she would sit on her porch watching her grandchildren and think back on 2025 as just that—a year when she had a brain tumour.
The surgeons removed the entire tumour and the surrounding brain tissue, giving her the best possible chance of recurrence prevention. She walked out of the hospital two days later with no brain damage and her sarcastic sense of humour still intact. She never asked for her prognosis. She didn't want to know. She is not a statistic, and if she is, she is the outlier. She and her family made a deliberate choice not to tell many people. She didn't want to be defined by cancer. They told the kids she had a mass in her brain that the surgeon had removed, and that she would need harsh medicine for a year that might make her tired, sick, or cause her hair to fall out. They didn't use the words cancer or tumour. When her hair started falling out during radiation, she told herself she was shedding her skin for her new life to come.
And she was crushing it. A week after her craniotomy, she completed her final lab report and sat her exam to graduate. The doctors and nurses couldn't believe it. She made it through six and a half weeks of daily radiation without headaches or fatigue. She only missed one day at her kids' swimming lessons, and that was the week of surgery. Then came twelve months of chemotherapy. After seven months on one treatment regimen, her blood counts stopped recovering. She was tired, dizzy, losing weight. Her oncologist later told her they were surprised she had made it that far. But every week she walked in smiling. And every week after she left, the staff would look at each other and say: she's still going. After a six-week break to let her body recover, she moved onto the only other treatment option. All told, eighteen months of treatment. Long and hard, but not without gifts—car rides with family and friends where they could talk and joke and deepen their bonds, and a year away from work to figure out what direction her career should take.
Now, three months into recovery, she has MRIs every quarter. She sees those scans as a blessing. After a short spike of anxiety while waiting for results, they calm her when her shoulders ache or she stands up too quickly and gets dizzy. She can tell herself that everyone has those moments. It doesn't mean it's grown back. Alongside the fear is something stronger: perspective. She lives in a country with access to world-class care, in a time when a diagnosis like hers is not the end of the story. Somewhere in the middle of all the treatment, during one of her many meditations, she asked herself again what she was meant to do now. After all, the universe had quite literally hit her over the head. So this is just the beginning. She has shed her skin. Now it's time for her next chapter. BellaPure is coming—a nutrition business aimed at helping people improve their health when the world feels like it's against them. Because she has been there. Nutrition is not a cure, but it makes you stronger. And she wants to help others become the healthiest version of themselves to get through whatever life is throwing at them.
Citações Notáveis
I'm not a statistic and if I am, I am the outlier.— Erica
Every week after I left, they'd look at each other and say, she's still going.— Erica, describing her oncology team's reaction to her resilience
A Conversa do Hearth Outra perspectiva sobre a história
You finished your degree while undergoing radiation. How did you actually do that?
Honestly, I think my brain needed the structure. The exams gave me something concrete to focus on besides the treatment. I sat that final exam a week after my craniotomy. The doctors thought I was mad.
And your kids—how much did you tell them?
We kept it simple. A mass, it's gone, now some medicine. We never said the word cancer. I didn't want them to carry that weight, and I didn't want to be the cancer mum. I was still their mum who made dinner and went to their swimming lessons.
You say you didn't ask for your prognosis. Why not?
Because I'm not a statistic. If I am one, I'm the outlier. Knowing a number wouldn't have changed what I was going to do anyway—which was show up and fight.
The hair loss—that must have been hard.
It was. But I reframed it. I was shedding my skin for my new life. Sounds strange, but it helped me feel like I was choosing it, not just enduring it.
And now you're starting a nutrition business. That feels connected to all of this.
Completely. I asked the universe to show me the way, and it hit me over the head with the answer. Now I get to help other people strengthen themselves when everything feels impossible. That's the whole point.