Kim Wilson, 37, who was born in Scotland and grew up in the Wakefield and Leeds area, was diagnosed with a grade 3 astrocytoma in August 2022. This followed a series of what she believed were panic attacks, along with memory issues and unexplained seizures. Initially thought to be struggling with anxiety, Kim's symptoms progressed over nearly three years before doctors discovered a tumour compressing her brain. Supported closely by her step-mum Amy, Kim underwent emergency surgery, followed by radiotherapy and chemotherapy. Today, she is doing well and is determined to live life fully, raise awareness, and fund research into brain tumours.
Kim tells her story, with support from her step-mum, Amy…
In October 2019, I crashed my car after picking up a friend.
I didn’t feel great beforehand, but at that time, feeling low was just my normal. Nothing about it made me think I was about to have a panic attack. I got to the station fine, parked the car, and that’s when something shifted. When my friend got in, I tried to explain what was happening, but I couldn’t get the words out. It was like I had “word salad” – the words were there in my head, but they wouldn’t come out right. Once I started to feel a bit calmer, I pulled out to drive home and went straight into a parked car. At the hospital, they ran some basic checks and said it was probably a one-off and sent me home.
Later, I began feeling anxious about everyday things that used to come easily such as leaving the house, being in social settings, or even just doing simple errands on my own. I thought I was experiencing panic attacks and put it down to COVID events, although I never had one in front of anyone. My GP agreed it was anxiety and gave me medication to help manage my heart rate when things felt overwhelming. At the time, it seemed like a straightforward diagnosis.
There were more moments that didn’t quite make sense. Once, while staying with Amy and my dad, she came back to the car and found me rambling and confused. At the time, we still thought it might be linked to anxiety.
Later, in June 2022, during a walk in a peaceful forest in Scotland, I suddenly stopped mid-sentence. I couldn’t speak, and then what did come out made no sense.
That’s when Amy started to worry that something else might be going on. It didn’t feel like anxiety or panic. She encouraged me to go back to the doctor, but I was feeling too overwhelmed to follow through. Looking back, she says it reminded her of the seizures her friend with epilepsy experiences, but at the time, we still believed it was anxiety.
A few weeks later, on 2 August, I collapsed during a Teams call while working from their house. Amy found me on the floor, experiencing a tonic-clonic seizure.
By the time the ambulance arrived, the seizure had stopped and I was lying on the bed in the room. They said I needed to go to hospital for further tests. While waiting for results at West Cumberland Hospital in Whitehaven, I had another seizure.
That one I remember more clearly. Amy was standing across from me, holding a coffee. I could feel something building, and I instinctively tried to hand her my cup before it slipped from my hands. She told me later that my face contorted and I started trying to speak but couldn’t. Then I hit the ground.
After my second seizure, they did a CT scan. The consultant couldn’t say for sure, but her gut told her it might be a brain tumour.
The MRI scanner was closing within the hour, so they rushed me through. Later that evening, I was transferred by ambulance to the Royal Victoria Infirmary in Newcastle.
I don’t remember being told it was a tumour. I have a hazy memory of seeing the ambulance parked outside Amy’s house, and another of speaking to the surgeon in Newcastle. I had never had surgery before – not even a filling – but apparently, I was calm and said things like, “I trust you” and “just do the surgery.”
Amy says I was still dazed from the seizures and not really processing the risks. All I remember feeling was, “If this is going to help, then just do it.”
The surgeon explained that what we’d thought were panic attacks were actually focal seizures. The tumour was pressing on my brain, triggering those episodes. For the first time, everything started to make sense.
The operation took eight hours. They weren’t able to remove the entire tumour, and what they did remove was sent for testing. The surgeon went on holiday the next day, so we didn’t speak to him again.
A few weeks later, in early September, I had a meeting with the oncologist at the Northern Centre for Cancer Care in Carlisle. Everyone had talked about how well the surgery went, so I went into that appointment feeling hopeful. I thought we’d be talking about next steps, not more bad news.
That’s when I found out my tumour was a grade 3 astrocytoma – incurable.
That night, I cried for the first and only time during all of this. I lay in bed and sobbed quietly into my pillow, not wanting anyone to hear. My mind was racing. All I could think was that I was going to die. I watched a film that night and remember thinking, “Every single character in this movie could outlive me.”
But I didn’t stay in that place for long. I messaged a friend I trust deeply, and she helped me see that I didn’t have to go through it alone. The next morning, I told my dad and Amy. Saying it out loud helped take away some of the power it held over me. From that point on, I chose to be open, honest, and positive.
Radiotherapy started soon after. I had ten sessions over two weeks, Monday to Friday. Then came chemotherapy. It was meant to be six rounds, possibly nine, but I ended up doing twelve because I responded well and didn’t have too many side effects. There was one early wobble when I skipped my anti-sickness tablets, and on a couple of days during treatment I completely lost my appetite – once near the end of my second or third round, and again during the final one.
I remember my oncologist asking if I’d had any issues, and I laughed and said, “I just want to feel hungry again.” It was said with a smile because I honestly felt lucky. To go through so much chemo and only have a few off days without food felt like a small victory.
After every third cycle, I had an MRI. When I finished treatment in October 2023, they started spacing the scans further apart. Now I have them every six months, and so far, everything has remained stable.
This summer, Amy suggested we do something to support Brain Tumour Research. I said yes immediately.
We decided to do 100 squats a day in August and set up a fundraising page. We thought it would just be the two of us, but it’s grown into a team of over 110 people including friends, family, old classmates, and even strangers.
Some are doing squats, others are adapting it to crunches or their own fitness level. One of my friends in Australia is running a race in support. Between us all, we’ve raised more than £4,000 in less than two weeks. I can’t cure my tumour, but I can help fund research that might lead to a cure for someone else.
This journey has changed how I see myself and how I live my life. I used to keep my thoughts inside and hide parts of who I was. Now I’m more open, more connected, more honest. I talk to neighbours I never used to speak to and let people see the real me.
I won’t pretend I’m not nervous about my next scan. I am. But now I have something to channel my energy into. I have a goal, a team behind me, and a cause I believe in.
This tumour is a part of my life, but it’s not the whole of it. Not even close.
Kim Wilson
August 2025
One in three people in the UK knows someone affected by a brain tumour. This disease is indiscriminate; it can affect anyone at any age. What’s more, brain tumours continue to kill more children and adults under the age of 40 than any other cancer yet, to date, just 1% of the national spend on cancer research has been allocated to this devastating disease since records began in 2002.
Brain Tumour Research is determined to change this.
If you have been inspired by Kim’s story, you may like to make a donation via www.braintumourresearch.org/donate or leave a gift in your will via www.braintumourresearch.org/legacy
Together we will find a cure.
