At the Mark Hughes Foundation, we are continually inspired by the courage, resilience and strength shown by those facing brain cancer. Every diagnosis is different, and behind each one is a deeply personal story.
As one of our 2026 Beanie Ambassadors, Erica has chosen to share her journey with remarkable honesty and positivity. Her story is not only about the challenges of a brain cancer diagnosis, but also about perspective, family, resilience and finding purpose through adversity.
We are so proud to have Erica as part of the MHF family and grateful for her willingness to share her experience in the hope it helps others feel less alone.
This is Erica’s story….
My diagnosis was totally unexpected. I was a healthy, very busy mum and at the time I was working part time, going to University, and raising three kids of various ages. I was 42 (Oct 2024), and after six years of study, I was one exam and a lab report away from finishing 6.5 years of study for Food Science and Human Nutrition.
After a 20-year career in business and finance, this was meant to be my year to move into this next phase. Whether it was my own business or working for someone else, I didn’t know yet.
I remember saying to a friend, “I don’t know where I am going to go with this now that it’s all finally finishing.”
She laughed and said, “Ask the universe to light the path.”
I joked back, “Honestly, I’ll have to tell the universe to hit me over the head with the answer so I hear it.”
…And that’s exactly what happened.
My symptoms were nothing like what I imagined when I thought of the words “brain tumour.”
Over the course of a month, I had a few dizzy spells, some brain fog and neck and shoulder pain. I assumed it was low blood pressure… maybe perimenopause.
Nothing prepares you for the moment a radiologist looks at you and says you can’t drive home — there’s a neurosurgical team waiting for you at the hospital.
I won’t lie, it was terrifying.
But I’m a positive person by nature, and once the initial shock passed, I made a decision. I started meditating to calm my mind, and I kept saying to myself — and to everyone around me — it’s benign, it’ll be okay.
Even when the surgeon said, “I don’t think it’s benign the swelling is too big,” I still said, “I’m going to be OK”. And I truly believe I am.
In fact, I decided I would use this experience to create a new version of myself. I wanted a change in direction, I asked for a sign and I got hit over the head with it, there was a reason for all this.
The two weeks waiting for results were a nightmare. I am a positive person but am not great at waiting around and having no control over it only made it worse. I found what I could control was my health. I ate healthy and exercised as much as I could with stitches from ear to ear.
And then the news came — it wasn’t benign. It was Grade 3. Aggressive, and on the edge of becoming more so.
I remember sitting in the car with my husband on the way home and just crying. Obviously, the kids were front of mind in all of this, wondering whether I be there to see them finish school, would my then three-year-old even remember who I am? I knew that wasn’t an option, so I dried my tears and compartmentalised.
This was happening. But I was going to get through it — and not just get through it, I was going to do it better than anyone and come out healthier in the end. I have lived a full life with travel, career, and family and this was only to be a year of my life. That’s a low percentage considering I was already 42 and planned to keep going after this. One day I will look back at 2025 from my porch watching my grandkids and say “Wow, remember that time I had a brain tumour”.
I was lucky. The surgeons removed the entire tumour and surrounding brain tissue as well; this gave me the best possible chance that it wouldn’t come back. I had no brain damage and even managed to walk out of hospital two days later with my sarcastic sense of humour still intact.
I never asked for my prognosis. I didn’t want to know. I am not a statistic and if I am, I am the outlier.
The kids were my priority, and this year was not going to cause them grief. Yes, I was scared as I had seen people go through chemotherapy before and it wasn’t a walk in the park, but I figured I could sleep through the day when they weren’t home and save my energy for when they were.
We also made a conscious decision not to tell many people. I didn’t want to be the cancer patient; this was a moment in time and will form part of my life story but not be the only thing in it. I have an awesome life and a thousand other things to talk about.
At home, we kept it simple. When I was out, I wore a hat or a wig and if I felt awful, I stayed home.
We didn’t use the words “Cancer” or “Tumour.” We still don’t.
We told the kids I had a mass in my brain, the surgeon had cut it out, it was gone now but I needed to have some pretty harsh medicine for a whole year that might make me tired or sick, and lose my hair.
When my hair started falling out from radiation, I told myself I was like a snake shedding its skin for my new life to come.
And honestly… I was crushing it.
I was home two days after a full craniotomy. A week later, I completed my final lab report and sat my exam to graduate.
The doctors and nurses couldn’t believe it. I made it through six and a half weeks of daily radiation without headaches or fatigue. I only missed one day at Nippers and that was the week of surgery.
Then came 12 months of chemotherapy and after seven months going strong my bloods stopped recovering. I was tired, dizzy, and starting to lose weight. Later, my oncologist told me they were surprised I’d made it that far on that particular treatment (PCV).
But every week, I’d walk in smiling. And apparently, every week after I left, they’d look at each other and say, she’s still going.
After a six-week break to let my body recover, I moved onto the only other treatment option (TMZ). All up, it was 18 months of treatment. Long, hard… but not without its gifts; those car rides with family and friends where we could talk, joke, and embed our relationships, and a year off work to figure out what direction to take my career. My toddler will definitely be a surgeon of some kind and my older two learned resilience, empathy, the power of positivity and sometimes laughing your way through the unknown.
I feel so lucky to be able to write this and marvel at the human body, especially the brain. I have a hole in my head and it’s going to stay there forever but I am still me, I still function as normal and I get to tell a positive story. I have come out the other side with a new sense of self, and empowerment when others are not that lucky.
That doesn’t mean the fear disappears. Every three months, I have MRIs, and strangely, I see those scans as a blessing. After a short spike in anxiety while waiting for results, they then keep the calm when my shoulders ache or I stand up too quick and get dizzy and I can then tell myself everyone has those moments it doesn’t mean its grown back.
Alongside that fear is something stronger: perspective.
How lucky are we to live in a country where we have access to this level of care and a time where a diagnosis like mine isn’t the end of the story, and where people all over the world are working toward a cure.
Somewhere in the middle of all of this, during one of my many meditations, I asked myself again — what am I meant to do now?
After all, I had quite literally been hit over the head by the universe.
So, this is just the beginning for me. I have shed my skin and now it’s time for my next chapter.
BellaPure Pty Ltd is coming — and I’ll be helping people improve their health through nutrition, even when they feel like the world is against them. Because I’ve been there and (regardless of what Instagram says) nutrition is not a cure but it does make you stronger and I want to help others be the healthiest version of themselves to get through whatever life is throwing at them.
By Erica Brooks
Erica with her husband, Andy and children, Logan, Piper & Briana
