My brain surgery is tomorrow and I am scared

How I'm holding space for my fear

Hello, friend.

As Buddhist teacher Josh Korda observes, "It's very important to not push away anxiety but to allow ourselves to be scared . . . what we resist persists." So I'm acknowledging my fear instead of trying to reason it away or look the other way.

The anxiety has been moving in steadily, setting up camp in my chest as June 6th approaches. It's different from the abstract worry I carried when Buttercup was just a problem for "someday." Now someday has a date, a time, a surgeon's name attached to it. Tomorrow has weight and specificity that "eventually" never did.

My therapist advised me to hold space for myself. Such a simple phrase that feels impossibly complicated in practice. Hold space. Make room. Allow what comes up to exist without immediately trying to fix it, manage it, or make it more palatable.

I keep reminding myself to meet whatever arises with compassion and patience. This is the practice I devoted myself to when my husband died.

My therapist gave me a framework that cuts through my people-pleasing tendencies: What's a luxury and what's a necessity right now? Worrying about others, she says, is a luxury. Worrying about myself is a necessity. This reframing feels both obvious and revolutionary. Of course I should focus on my own needs before surgery. Of course I shouldn't spend precious emotional energy managing everyone else's reactions to my situation.

I need to not worry about comforting others who are struggling with my health situation. This is perhaps the hardest part—watching people I love feel scared or sad about my surgery and resisting the urge to make their feelings my responsibility. Instead, I'm learning to say, "I understand this is hard for you. Please turn to your own support network for comfort." It feels selfish until I remember it's necessary.

I don't have the luxury of entertaining negativity right now. This means saying no to conversations that drain me, avoiding news that spikes my anxiety, and watching things that make me happy (Ted Lasso is perfect. It’s healing to spend time with characters who believe in the fundamental goodness of people, who choose hope over cynicism even when the world gives them every reason to do otherwise.).

I don't have the luxury of thinking about the negative possibilities of tomorrow's surgery. I need to just assume everything will be wonderful. This isn't denial—it's strategic self-preservation. There will be time to deal with complications if they arise, but that time is not now. Now is not the time for worst-case scenarios.

My therapist reminds me about radical acceptance—not just tolerating what's happening but genuinely accepting it without wishing it were different. This surgery isn't something happening to me; it's for me. Buttercup needs to go, and tomorrow we'll make that happen.

I know I'll be fine, whatever fine looks like after tomorrow.

My fear isn't dying—it's leaving behind so many people I love deeply. But I know that the people I love are resilient. They have support networks. They would figure out how to go on, just as I learned to go on after Tom died.

Holding space for myself means creating room for all of it—the fear and the hope, the gratitude and the grief, the excitement about Buttercup's removal and the terror of what might go wrong. All of these feelings can coexist. None of them need to be fixed or managed or explained away.

Tomorrow morning, I'll wake up and head to the hospital. Between now and then, my job is simple: be gentle, trust my support network, focus on what I can control, and let everything else belong to tomorrow.

The fear is real, and I'm letting it be here with me today. But the hope is real too.

If you're the praying type, please pray for me tomorrow. If you chant, chant daimoku. If you send energy into the universe, send some my way. Whatever your practice, whatever brings you comfort or connection to something larger than yourself—I'd be grateful for that focused intention tomorrow morning.

Thank you for walking this journey with me. See you on the other side.

If something here resonates with you, I'd be honored if you shared it with someone who might need it today. Let’s help each other along on this journey. I'm grateful our paths have crossed.

Onward, in hope and solidarity.
Elizabeth