Not a Comeback – a Becoming by Melissa Gough
The wheelchair rolled slowly beneath me, guided by a kind nurse, while my brother walked quietly by my side. After two surreal, life-altering weeks, I was being discharged from hospital – a place that had held me, quite literally between life and death. I was leaving with gratitude in my heart, uncertainty in my weary mind, yet a quiet comforting feeling that I was heading back to all my familiarities. But was it going to be redefined by what I had endured, and by the strength I never knew I had. My gut instinct seemed different, maybe I was about to step into a whole new world.
When I was discharged, I was signed off work for eight weeks, and I could not drive for three months. All of this happening in the middle of COVID, and Melbourne's strict lockdowns meant visitations were limited anyway. In many ways, the world slowing down gave me permission to do the same. My body was fragile; I needed deep rest – and it seemed everything around reflected everything I needed.
I will be forever grateful to my colleagues and neighbours during this time. With little family nearby, they became my village – dropping meals off at my door, offering quiet acts of care that truly nourished my recovery.
“Teaching had been a core part of my identity, and it felt like I was saying goodbye forever”
As time went on, I began conversations with my employer (I was a full-time teacher in a private school) about a gradual return to work. I could speak clearly, but something had shifted – my cognition wasn’t the same and I was experiencing fatigue, which was a normal part of when there has been a significant brain disruption. Juggling in-class and online teaching during COVID was overwhelming. Before the subarachnoid brain haemorrhage (under the very broad umbrella of a stroke), I could manage it. After that, I couldn’t. In consultation with my GP and medical team, we agreed it was best for me to resign under these conditions – to prioritise my recovery and begin to process the enormity of what I had been through.
Deep down, I was devastated – teaching had been a core part of my identity, and it felt like I was saying goodbye forever.
My thinking was fragile, my emotions heightened, and I took it very personally. I cried, I grieved, and I questioned: Would teaching ever be part of my future again? What would I do next? But one message was clear – rest and avoiding stress had to come first.
“having some kind of routine gave me a sense of grounding”
I surrendered to the knowledge that this was what I needed to do. While each day often felt the same, having some kind of routine gave me a sense of grounding. On waking each morning, I would meditate, have breakfast, check in with a friend, and then write out a simple to-do list. My neuro-osteopaths had encouraged me to do this, reminding me that even the smallest tasks written down could help keep my mind steady. With my short-term memory currently affected, I would sometimes forget what I was doing mid-task, or walk into a room and have no idea why I was there. I was mindful not to overwhelm myself, but it became my anchor – something gentle to guide me back when my mind wandered.
It was during this time that I returned to writing. Journaling and longer passages had always been part of my life, and in the past, I had even attempted two books, though I never found the stamina to finish them. This time felt different. I allowed myself the necessary brain breaks when needed, but poured everything onto the page in what writers call a “brain dump.” I documented my hospital stay, the early recovery, and everything I could recall – even past experiences that surfaced unexpectedly. But I didn’t force it. One of the necessities of brain injury recovery is learning not to put pressure on yourself to remember everything and perform at optimal levels.
Parts of the early days now after my brain haemorrhage and strokes are a blur, while other moments feel like they happened yesterday. I often found myself repeating the story to family and friends – sometimes it was met with understanding, other times with comparisons that felt frustrating and invalidating. Looking back now, four and a half years on, I’ve come to accept that this is part of the human experience. What I went through was unique. There were no signs, no symptoms. I was healthy, simply waking on a Sunday morning like any other – yet only hours later I was unconscious in a hospital bed, being told I’d had a brain haemorrhage and that my family needed to be called.
“I felt drawn to create a space to share stories”
I became more curious during this time, especially as my own moral compass was challenged. While COVID dominated the world’s attention, I realised that strokes, cancer, and other life-changing events hadn’t gone away – they were still impacting people every day. This made me wonder about others who, like me, had faced a near-death experience and found a way through. That curiosity sparked the idea of starting a new podcast. I had begun listening to a few myself, and I felt drawn to create a space to share stories of adversity and resilience, raising awareness in a meaningful way.
They were hugely popular at the time – and still are – but I wasn’t after trends. I wanted to hear real stories of adversity, to feel less alone, and to connect with others who had been through something like me. I was inspired to create The Brain Game Changer podcast and website. Across two seasons, I interviewed individuals who had overcome significant adversity, along with representatives from key organisations working to support those navigating similar life-altering experiences.
Creating the podcast was profoundly healing. Though it was financially challenging (as I paid for an external editor), and at times cognitively demanding to manage, it was worth it. Sharing my voice, hearing powerful stories, and learning how organisations were helping others gave me hope and gratitude.
Though I’ve hung up the headphones for now, the podcast remains on my radar, and I hope to return to it one day. As I sit here now, writing this article, four years into my brain haemorrhage and stroke survivor journey, I also feel more at peace and empowered to share my experiences in other people’s podcasts.
“Walking back into the classroom felt both familiar and strange”
Post COVID, we found ourselves in a new normal – children back at school and teachers returning to face-to-face learning. The teacher in me was still part of my DNA, but I carried a quiet apprehension. How could I step back into teaching without overwhelming myself, while still giving what was needed?
I chose to return to a school I really valued, one that I had worked with before and where they already knew my story. Their support and encouragement made all the difference. To give myself more stability, I also joined an agency, which meant I could balance financial security with the flexibility I needed.
Walking back into the classroom felt both familiar and strange, like slipping into a comfortable old pair of shoes, yet noticing they fit a little differently now. Some days flowed with ease; others tested me more. It wasn’t just new for me – it was new for all of us. The classroom itself had changed. Through it all, I learned to truly listen to my body, rest when I needed to, advocate when I needed a break from yard duties, or just a ten-minute breather, and trust that I could find my own rhythm again.
“This journey has opened doors”
As I come to the end of writing this article, I feel deeply honoured to have been asked to share my story. Four and a half years on, I am grateful for every opportunity that has come my way. While there were conversations and responses that sometimes challenged my moral compass, and left me feeling unseen, they also fuelled my passion, curiosity, and the very essence of me as an educator – to share knowledge and in ways that reach beyond the classroom.
I found myself drawn to advocacy, to questioning how people are treated – whether in disability, in the workplace, or in the aftermath of life-changing adversity like stroke. I am deeply interested in psychological safety, wellbeing, and the importance of how we show up for one another. This journey has opened doors into research with major organisations here in Australia, and I feel fortunate to be part of that work.
I get to pay it forward. I get to share my voice, not only to honour my own journey, but to amplify the stories of others, and create spaces where people feel seen, safe and valued.
My voice has always been my superpower!
