Tezza

From the moment I had my stroke right through to the day of surgery, I made a conscious decision not to doomscroll. I avoided ChatGPT, Reddit, and Google. I didn’t want to drown in stories or spiral in speculation. I only read what my care team gave me, medical journals and summaries from my surgeon ,most of which I barely understood, but it felt safer that way. I knew that if I cracked the door open late at night, when the insomnia hit, my mind would fall into darker places. And to be honest, I was already struggling.

It wasn’t until I came out of surgery that I realised just how heavy those six months had been. I didn’t recognise it at the time, but I was in a dark place. I was anxious. I was depressed. I lost parts of myself I didn’t know I could lose. I wasn’t just sick, I was scared, and I was lonely. It was the first time I’d really faced a mental health challenge. It came slowly, quietly, and completely.

Now, I’m still recovering, physically and mentally, but there’s a thin layer of clarity forming. A layer I can build on. And for the first time, I felt ready to start looking outward.

That’s when I found TaaF — an organisation that supports people going through or recovering from AVMs. I reached out not expecting much, but within hours they got back to me. Not just with a generic email or a list of resources, but with something real: a connection.

They introduced me to a guy called Terry, someone who's fighting through the same thing I am. And instantly, there was a sense of understanding. He came with an open heart and an open mind, and when we spoke, it just clicked. I’d never met anyone with an AVM before. Speaking to him was the first time I felt truly heard. Not just by a doctor, or a well-meaning friend — but by someone who actually got it.

It was surreal. I’m not a spiritual person, but this felt almost like fate. It was like I gained a brother overnight. A fellow fighter. And in time, I hope I can be that for someone else too.

When I got his first email, he signed off as “Tezza.” That was when I smiled — because I’m Australian, and that’s exactly what he’d be called back home. We’re strangers on paper, but in this, we’re connected.

We’ve both been through hell. We’re not done yet. But we’re here. And that counts for something.