Fifteen years ago, the firm ground I'd once stood upon crumbled when I was diagnosed with a brain tumor. A baseball-sized meningioma had been pushing against my optic nerve for at least a decade and was wrapped around my carotid artery, placing enormous pressure on my pituitary gland. Now it was on the verge of sending me into a life-altering coma, according to my newly appointed neurosurgeon.

At the time, I was a 32-year-old freelance writer on a frustrating quest to become a mother. Doctors told me I was impatient and overly anxious, even though I had stopped taking birth control pills and hadn't had a period in nearly a year. I had blood work to rule out lupus, thyroiditis, and other common causes of infertility. Finally, I was referred to a fertility specialist who said I had hypothalamic hypogonadotropism (caused by a lack of hormones that normally stimulate the ovaries) and suggested I try in vitro fertilization or adopt. I wasn't ready for either option.

Then the headaches started—debilitating, excruciating ones that blindsided me and plunged me into despair. Hitting what felt like rock bottom kicked my journalistic skills into overdrive, and I was determined to prove there was more to the "It's all in your head" diagnosis. I demanded an MRI, which, at last, revealed that it was all in my head—just not in the way others had meant.

A week after my diagnosis, I was scheduled for a 12-hour brain surgery and told that the possible risks included blindness in one eye, left-sided weakness, and difficulty processing words. That scared me, but I was more afraid—perhaps irrationally—that the neurosurgeon might accidentally scrape away one too many neurons and tamper with the part of my brain that allowed me to write. To be creative. To be me.

I survived my craniotomy, as well as a second surgery four months later to plug a cerebral spinal fluid leak. I was even spared the physical deficits. I consider myself lucky to have only the invisible ones: epilepsy, chronic fatigue, and facial nerve pain (neuralgia).

An unexpected but wonderful outcome of surgery was the return of my periods and the natural conception of not one but two children: Hannah, now 13, and Hunter, 10.

But it was a long haul before I could fully enjoy and savor the title of "Mom." I gradually accepted my body's physical limitations; I didn't resume walking or hiking until I had rebuilt my energy reserves. But I had little patience for the struggles I encountered as I tried to pick up my craft again. I had lost the ability to focus. I struggled with words I knew how to spell. Words assaulted my senses, glaring up at me from ink-stained pages, daring me to absorb them and contemplate their previously learned meanings.

I finally forced myself to return to the rudimentary basics of writing—free journaling—to release my recovery frustrations, with hopes of recapturing the skills I had spent years honing and executing. I also kept a gratitude journal.

It took months, but as my stamina gradually returned, so did my grip on crafting a good story. The misfiring neurons were settling back into place. Sparks of creativity reignited.

Rather than lament the loss of my previous writing style, a style I knew as well as a favorite pair of worn jeans, I accepted that my brain tumor had given me a new voice, one that allows me to connect with others facing the unknowns of a brain tumor diagnosis. My meningioma has given me a second chance—to reinvent myself and my writing.

I am celebrating my 15th second chance in February. Not too shabby for a twice-probed mind.