By Felicity Powell

Kia ora, I’m Felicity Powell – Fulbright Scholar, STEM Education Specialist, and now, unexpectedly, a brain tumour vanquisher.

It’s taken me a year to feel ready to share my story. After months of battling unexplained symptoms, countless medical hurdles, and a rollercoaster of personal and professional upheaval, I now have a clearer path forward – and a sense of hope for what’s to come in 2024.

It all started in February 2022 while I was surfing with friends. I caught a wave, but when I tried to pop up on my board, my legs didn’t move. I slid off the board, stumbled onshore, and couldn’t understand why my body had just ignored a basic instruction.

I brushed it off as fatigue. But that moment would be the first in a cascade of symptoms affecting nearly every system in my body: headaches, blurred vision, speech difficulties, left-side weakness, and fatigue so overwhelming that it slowly consumed my life.

Despite it all, I had just started my dream job at Rocket Lab. I gave my all to that role, often sacrificing everything else. Weekends were for recovery. I stopped running. I stopped surfing. I stopped going out. Life got very small, and very quiet.

My last sunset in Puerto Escondido

It took ten months, three referrals, and persistent advocacy from my GP before I finally saw a neurologist. I’ll never forget how dismissive he was. “You seem fine,” he told me. I asked for an MRI anyway. He reluctantly agreed, saying, “We’re not going to find anything.”

At the end of November 2022, I had the scan. I was sedated for my claustrophobia and enjoyed some David Attenborough documentaries while the machine clunked around me. The technicians used contrast dye after initially saying they wouldn’t need to.

Still, I thought little of it. A few days later, I flew to Mexico for my first real holiday in years.

Diagnosis Far from Home

One week before Christmas, I woke in Puerto Escondido to an alert from ManageMyHealth. I clicked through and saw the words: “Intracranial Tumour – referred to neurosurgery.”

That was how I found out I had a brain tumour. I sat on the toilet in my hotel room, Googling the term just to be sure it meant what I thought. It did.

I went into survival mode. I convinced myself it was “a nice tumour,” one that could be removed easily. I kept the news quiet, stayed optimistic, and made the most of the rest of the trip. On my last night, I watched the sunset from the beach and told myself, whatever came next, I would face it head-on.

If I could give anyone advice, it’s this: don’t get diagnosed with a brain tumour right before Christmas. Everything shuts down. I had no answers, just uncertainty. I received the radiologist’s report just before New Year’s, which confirmed the tumour was embedded in the glial tissue of my right cerebellum – not the news I’d hoped for.

The next ten months were full of frustration and dead ends. I was passed between specialists, told contradicting things, and often left without communication. A scan to monitor tumour growth was missed altogether. I had to request my own medical records through the OIA just to learn what was being said about me behind the scenes.

Meanwhile, I poured myself into my work at Rocket Lab. But just a few months later, my position was disestablished. The entire education programme I’d built was closed. I lost not only my job, but also my home, and I was left with a brain tumour and no clear path forward.

I never imagined I’d have a brain tumour. Even now, I struggle to comprehend it. I’ve done my best to navigate the system, advocate for myself, and hold on to some sense of purpose. But it hasn’t been easy.

Beyond the medical fight, the hardest part has been losing people. Some friends ignored my diagnosis, others judged me for how I’ve handled it. I’ve been called attention-seeking for sharing my truth. It’s been lonely and isolating at times.

But there have also been beautiful moments. People who’ve texted before appointments, sent flowers, dropped off kind notes. People who reminded me that I mattered, even when I didn’t feel like I did. If you’re one of those people, thank you – truly. You may be one of the reasons I’m still here.

I’m aware of how lucky I am. I had access to the knowledge, support, and resources that many don’t. And still, it was an exhausting, traumatic process. It shouldn’t have to be that hard.

T-6 days until my diagnosis. Winning a Guacamole-making contest in Xochimilco, Mexico.

After hitting a low point, I decided to return to China in July to attend the Kung Fu school I’d trained at in 2018. It gave me focus, and crucially, it was cheaper than staying in New Zealand.

The training was intense, but healing in its own way. Despite setbacks, including tearing a muscle in my hip, I adapted. I trained in Tai Chi and eventually regained some balance and control on my left side. It wasn’t a miracle, but the small improvements gave me something I hadn’t felt in a long time: hope.

At the end of my time there, I competed in the International Taijiquan Tournament and won a silver medal for my division. I even performed in the televised opening ceremony and ticked off a few bucket list items, including seeing the Great Wall.

When I returned home, a letter from Te Whatu Ora was waiting for me. My MRI had been scheduled. One week later, I had my follow-up neurosurgery appointment – seven months overdue.

In February 2024, I’m scheduled for a craniotomy to remove the tumour, almost exactly two years after my first symptoms. There are risks, but I trust my surgical team. I’m hopeful this surgery will give me the best chance at a healthy future.

I’ve tried to stay militantly optimistic, even as this year has eroded much of my spark. But I believe in doing what I can, with what I have, wherever I am.

The holidays this year will be different. Last year, I had to spend Christmas Day with the fresh knowledge that I had a brain tumour of unknown prognosis. I still have a brain tumour, but this year I know the next steps to hopefully getting rid of it. It's a nice closing bookend to one of the hardest years of my life to date.

I hope you’ll be here to celebrate with me if - when - I come out the other side.

T+6 hours after diagnosis, surfing La Punta.