by Ayis Andreas Caperonis
My name is Ayis, and my life changed when I was thirteen and a half years old.
I grew up in a very athletic family. My father competed in the Olympic Games, and from a young age, I dreamed of following in his footsteps. Sports were my world. I trained hard, competed often, and imagined a future built around physical performance and competition.
Then the headaches started.
At first, everyone thought it was stress or simple fatigue. But the symptoms grew stranger and more intense, and my parents knew something was not right. After more testing, doctors discovered a brain tumor about the size of an orange, deep in my brain.
Almost overnight, my life shifted. School, sports, and training were replaced with scans, hospital rooms, and serious conversations I barely understood. My parents and doctors chose not to tell me how critical the surgery was. I did not know that I might not survive. Looking back, that may have been a gift. I went into surgery believing I would get through it and return to normal life.
When I woke up, nothing was normal.
I could not walk. I could not feed myself. My coordination was like that of a baby. During rehabilitation, the therapists sat me in front of a mirror. I saw the scar on my head, the weakness in my body, and the way my muscles no longer responded the way they once had. It was a moment that changed me forever. The athlete who once dreamed of Olympic glory now had to fight just to stand and hold a spoon.
The years that followed were filled with therapy, repetition, and constant effort. On the outside, people called me brave and strong. On the inside, I struggled with deep depression that lasted many years. I felt different. I felt broken. I felt left behind as my peers moved forward with their lives and the dreams I once had slipped further away.
What carried me through was a combination of things. The dedication of my medical and rehabilitation teams mattered more than I can ever express. The love and support of my family kept me grounded. And my faith in God gave me strength when I felt like I had none left.
Progress came slowly, sometimes painfully slowly. A few extra steps. A steadier hand. A little more confidence. I learned to celebrate every small victory, because each one truly mattered.
Over time, I began to rebuild more than just my body. I rebuilt my identity. I was no longer only the athlete I once was, or the child known for having a brain tumor. I became a whole person again, with new strengths, new purpose, and new possibilities.
Years later, I met my future wife. I built a family. I discovered that my story could offer hope to others walking a similar path. What once felt like an ending became the foundation for something deeper and more meaningful.
Today, I still live with limitations and scars. But my life is rich, full, and meaningful.
To any child, teen, or parent facing a brain tumor diagnosis, I want you to know this: your life may change in ways you never expected, but your story is not over. There is hope after diagnosis. There is hope after surgery. There is hope even after years of struggle.
You are more than your tumor.
You are more than your scans.
You are more than what you have lost.
