My Story | Mum, Brain Tumour Warrior & Founder Making An Impact

My Early Life

I was born on 11 April 1979 at UCH Hospital in London. My mum is Greek Cypriot and my dad’s parents were Irish. They separated when I was still a baby.

For the first three years of my life I lived in Camden Town with my dad and my grandparents in a three bedroom flat. My dad was juggling work and college while raising me, which I have always respected.

At three, I moved back in with my mum in Kentish Town, where I lived until I was thirteen. I then moved to Bath at thirteen, returned to Hampstead in 1997, spent around fifteen years in Barnet and now live in a village just outside Potters Bar in Hertfordshire.

In 2005, I spent nine months in Thailand. It was meant to be a permanent move, but my diagnosis cut that chapter short and brought me home.

Both of my parents moved on and built new families. My dad, John, met Zoe and they had two children together. They are still happily married and live in Leigh on Sea. My mum, Angela, met Ricky, who has been my second dad from the start. They also had two children together and Mum has since remarried.

I went to Rhyl Street Primary School and then Camden School for Girls for my first year of secondary school.

My upbringing was what many children of separated parents would recognise. There was nothing dramatic or unusual about it. If anything, I feel fortunate. I was loved, supported and given a solid foundation to grow from.

Great Yarmouth caravan trip with mum and her step dad Ricky

Lisa and her cousin Alexander at the caravan in Great Yarmouth

Lisa Connell with her youngest brother Andrew

Lisa with Rhyl Street Primary School class

Lisa Connell living with mum in Kentish Town

Change

When I was ten, something happened that changed the course of my life.

I stayed at a friend’s house for a sleepover and that night I was abused by her father, Bobby Lee. I choose to name him. For me, speaking his name is part of taking back my voice.

He lived in Queen’s Crescent in Chalk Farm, just around the corner from where I lived with my mum. After it happened, we would still see him around. Imagine that. Being a child and bumping into the man who hurt you. I remember feeling scared and frozen. My mum did everything she could to protect me. She made sure people knew who he was. I even remember a market stall holder once throwing cabbages at him. That moment has never left me.

What followed was years of court appearances. From the age of ten to thirteen I was dragged through the system, determined to see justice done. But justice never truly came. He was known to be involved with the triads, yet he walked away with a £200 fine and a six month suspended sentence. That was it.

Around that time my dad had bought a house in Bath as an investment. We would go there at weekends to decorate it. It was meant to be something positive, something for the future. But inside, I was changing. The anger, the confusion, the hurt I did not know how to process began to surface. That is when I started to turn nasty.

A House Full Of Anger

My teenage years were turbulent. Mum and I fought constantly. She would try to restrain me and, at times, would slap me in an attempt to regain control. I was just as aggressive. I would punch, kick and pull her hair. I was completely out of control, full of anger I did not know how to handle.

Several times I ran away to my dad’s. I was thirteen and full of attitude, and I lied. I told him Mum was beating me. The police became involved and eventually removed me from her while everything was investigated. I was not allowed to see either of my parents during that time. One of Dad’s friends, Bridget, collected me and I stayed with her in Muswell Hill for around two weeks, still insisting that Mum was hurting me.

In the end, Mum stopped fighting and agreed that I could go and live with Dad. That is when we moved to Bath.

Dad enrolled me at St Marks Comprehensive in Bath and at first things seemed to calm down. It was a mixed school, so I quickly became distracted by boys and typical teenage life. Dad had been with Zoe since I was little, and together they did their best for me. They helped with homework, took me out, let me stay with friends and made sure I never went without, even if most things were second hand.

When Dad was offered a job on the Isle of Wight and began working away during the week, only coming home at weekends, the balance shifted again. Even though they were trying their best, I was still carrying so much anger that everything felt harder than it needed to be.

My School Friends from Bath, Tessa, Vicky & Debbie

Growing Up In Bath

In many ways, my time in Bath was good. I rode my bike for hours, often on my own along the River Avon, and met people that way. I had piano lessons, went horse riding, did trampoline classes and swam every week. On the surface, it was a healthy, active life and I had opportunities that many teenagers would have loved.

Things began to shift when Dad started working away during the week. That is when I began to rebel again.

I remember one evening clearly. I was sitting in the living room doing homework with Dad and Zoe. I could not understand a maths question. Zoe was patiently trying to explain it, but I would not listen. I wound myself up into such a state that I had a huge tantrum, throwing books across the room. One of them hit Zoe in the face.

At the time it seemed like anger over a simple maths problem. Looking back now, I understand it was deeper than that. I struggled with anyone taking control. Even someone trying to help felt overwhelming to me. The more she explained, the more I felt out of control, and I lost it completely.

That was how the tantrums and physical behaviour started again.

Eventually, I took a huge overdose and ended up in hospital for a few weeks. I was made to see a counsellor. It helped slightly, but I could not fully open up and I soon stopped going. I turned fifteen and threw myself into going out, getting drunk in the back fields with friends and spending time with my boyfriend at the time. I was avoiding everything I did not want to face.

When Zoe became pregnant, it tipped me over again. In my teenage mind, it felt like my life was over. Dad was already away during the week and suddenly there was going to be a baby needing attention. I did not handle it well at all.

Leaving Home At Sixteen

I was still at school, just about to sit my GCSEs, when I decided to leave home. I went to see my social worker and he arranged for me to move into a bed sit at the other end of town. I received government grants to help me manage and, once I left school, I found a job while attending college one day a week. During that time, I achieved my NVQ Level 2 in Business Studies.

From the bed sit I moved into a B and B. It was actually fine because it was run by the parents of someone I knew from school. Mum would stay occasionally and Dad always came to see me. I was there for around three months before being offered a flat of my own. It was a good flat, even if the décor was questionable by today’s standards.

I drifted from job to job, never really finding something that suited me. Within a year I found myself unemployed and signing on at sixteen.

I was out most nights. I had very little money and worked evenings in a bar, cash in hand. Every Wednesday for about a year I went to a Jungle night at Roxbury’s, the nightclub in the centre of town. That became my routine.

Moving Back to London

At the age of 17 I left Bath and moved back to London. I moved within a couple of days, one minute I was there the next I was gone. I had again gone through another ordeal: I was raped, not by one but by two people. I packed up a huge bag and left the next day for London. I went straight to my Mum’s in Hampstead where she was living at the time.

I was in a state, Mum couldn’t understand it. I told her that I was moving back and that I never wanted to go back to the flat ever again. The next day I went to Oxford Street and walked around all the shops looking for a job. I got offered one straight away working in Oasis in Regent Street; the job was set to start on the Monday.

It was Saturday and the following day Mum and Ricky (my step Dad) came with me to Bath to collect the rest of my personal belongings. I had to leave everything else there, the washing machine, bed , etc. I handed the keys in and that was the last I saw of that flat.

Six months later I was slowly getting back into the swing of things. The job was going well and I had made new friends, life seemed to be improving, but it wasn’t.

Seventeen And Breaking

I had developed a new way of coping. Instead of exploding in anger, I started bottling everything up until I broke. The aggression turned inward. I began taking overdoses and having blackouts without even fully registering what I was doing.

Before long, I was back in hospital. Mum admitted me after finding me passing out from a whole packet of paracetamol. I was taken to the Nicole Ward at the Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead. That period of my life feels like one long blur. I cannot remember how long I was there. It is almost as if my mind switched off.

What I do remember is lying in a bed surrounded by people who were deeply unwell. Patients rocking back and forth. Screaming in the middle of the night. It felt frightening and disorientating. The doctors put me on Prozac and gave me strong injections to stop me harming myself. As soon as the medication began to stabilise me, I was discharged.

I had had a nervous breakdown. I was seventeen.

Life became increasingly surreal. It did not calm down after that.

One weekend, I was visiting Mum in London with a friend. We were sitting on the top deck of a bus when a drunk man in his forties suddenly lunged at me. He pinned me down and tried to hit me. My friend Sarah was screaming for help while most people on the bus simply stared. One man eventually stepped in and pulled him off me. The driver stopped the bus and asked if I was all right. We got off immediately and took the next one home.

The police were called and the man was later found in a pizza restaurant causing a disturbance. It went to court. I remember the judge handing me a letter the man had written. He said he was not in a good state of mind and that, for some reason, he believed I was out to get him.

By that point, my life did not feel real. It felt like one chaotic scene rolling into the next.

My friend Sarah from Bath visiting my mum, brother and cousin in London

Rising From The Chaos

That was how my life began. It felt like hell at times. But I truly believe those experiences shaped me. They built resilience in places I did not even know existed. The highs and lows did not suddenly disappear, but something in me had shifted.

After moving back to London for good, I began to settle. I slowly became my own person. I worked through the lies, the chaos and the hurt I had caused along the way. I rebuilt relationships. I rebuilt myself.

I moved into property management and spent seven to eight years building a career. Each time I changed jobs, I climbed higher. I was ambitious, driven and very good at what I did. I managed teams of around twenty five people and led projects that generated millions for the companies I worked for. For the first time, I felt capable and in control in a healthy way.

In June 2005, having finally cleared my debts, I made a bold decision. I left my job. I wanted more than just climbing the ladder. I wanted to see the world and live beyond the limits I had once placed on myself.

I moved to Thailand and lived there for nine months. Without question, it was one of the best times of my life. It felt like freedom. It felt like I had stepped into the version of myself I was always meant to become.

living the dream

When I first left for Thailand, the plan was simple. I had a job lined up in real estate with a basic salary of £500 per month plus commission. Back then, that was very good money out there.

But I did not even start the job.

Instead, I found a local art gallery willing to let me sell paintings on their behalf for £25 per piece. I listed them on eBay and suddenly I was running my own little business from a laptop on the beach, cocktail in hand. I was earning in a week what I would have earned in a month back home. It felt surreal in the best possible way.

If I say I only had two sober nights during my entire stay, I am not exaggerating. I worked hard, but I partied harder. I was fully immersed in the lifestyle. Sun, freedom, money, no responsibilities. It felt like I had escaped everything I had ever been through.

While I was there, I met a guy from England called Dean. As often happens when you are in that carefree, holiday mindset, things moved fast. We moved in together almost immediately.

Then reality hit.

One day, I received a call from my best friend Rickie in Camden telling me her dad had died from cancer. Half an hour later, Dean received a call saying his uncle had also just died from cancer. As we spoke more about it, we realised we had mutual friends and overlapping circles back in England. The world suddenly felt very small.

We both knew we had to fly home for the funerals.

Dean’s dad was visiting us in Thailand at the time and stayed there while we returned to the UK. It was during that period that everything began to change.

Back to England

While we were in London for my friend’s dad’s funeral, something did not feel right. I was at Dean’s aunt’s house one day and insisted on doing a pregnancy test. I just knew.

I was right. I was pregnant.

Almost at the same time, Dean received a call from a hospital in Thailand to say that his dad had passed away from a heart attack. Within days, everything had shifted. A pregnancy. A death. Plans unravelled.

We were meant to return to Thailand, but after that call, we made the decision to stay in England.

From that point on, things spiralled. At the time, I told myself it was just pregnancy hormones. That the emotions, the tension, the instability were normal. But it was not normal. And deep down, I think I knew that.

When My Body Started To Betray Me

It began with my vision. Things were not quite right. Then I started stumbling, losing coordination, feeling off balance. My mood shifted too. The pregnancy was not joyful. Not at all. I was four months along when I miscarried.

Our relationship did not survive it. I moved back to London from Brentwood, where we had been living.

Around the same time, my eyesight was getting worse. I went to an optician and was prescribed glasses, assuming that was the problem.

It was not.

I had collected Dad’s car from Leigh on Sea and was driving back when I realised something was seriously wrong. As I moved over towards the fast lane, it suddenly felt like every car in the slow lane was crossing into me. It was as though I was inside a driving game, with vehicles coming at me from every angle.

I panicked.

Then I discovered that if I closed one eye, my vision steadied. Not perfectly, but enough to function.

By the time I came off the motorway and reached home, I was in hysterics. I had hit a bollard and scraped the side of Dad’s car, but somehow I had made it back in one piece.

As soon as I got inside, I called him and told him what had happened.

Meeting up with actor and family friend Jimmi Harkishin

Second opinion

Dad told me to go straight to Barnet and get another opinion. The glasses I had been prescribed clearly were not working. I had already been back to the same optician twice, adjusting the prescription over and over. I was not going back again.

I managed to get an appointment immediately with Chris Violaris, the owner of Specs Direct Opticians in High Barnet. After running a series of tests, he noticed something unusual behind my left eye. Without hesitation, he arranged for a taxi and sent me straight to Moorfields Eye Hospital.

I did not really understand what was happening. I went alone. I just knew something was not right.

At Moorfields, I went through more tests there and then. I was told I had developed a squint in my left eye. They explained they would arrange an MRI scan to rule anything serious out. If the results came back clear, I would need to wait about a year for it to stabilise and then surgery could correct it.

At that point, my right eye was looking at you and my left eye was looking for you.

Deterioration

During the six week wait for my MRI results, I went back to Chris to thank him for referring me to Moorfields. He came up with an idea to help with the double vision. He made a contact lens that was completely blacked out, covering my left eye so I could see clearly through my right. It was such a simple solution, but it made a huge difference at the time.

But my body was not improving.

Over those six weeks, my health declined day by day. I started losing my hearing. I was falling over constantly. I could not walk in a straight line. I must have looked like a drunk woman stumbling down the street. I even remember people walking past and saying, “Look at her, state of it.”

Inside, I felt terrified and completely out of control. My head felt scrambled. Nothing was steady. And I still did not know why.

Detected Lisa Connell's Brain Tumour in 2006

mri results day

It was finally results day. Around six months after my miscarriage, from what I can piece together. My memory from that time is patchy.

I went alone. As far as I was concerned, this was just a routine follow up. The appointments were running late and I remember sitting there, waiting, unaware that my life was about to split in two.

Eventually I heard, “Miss Connell.”

I was shown into a cubicle and met with Dr Plant. He went through my notes, carried out an eye observation and repeated what I had previously been told. That I would likely need to wait a year for the movement behind my eye to stabilise and then they could operate on the squint.

I felt relieved. That was all I cared about in that moment. I just wanted my eye to look normal again.

So I asked what felt like an obvious question. “So everything else on the MRI was clear?”

He did not know. The MRI results had not been passed to him.

He left the room to check. I sat in that cubicle for an hour and a half. It felt endless. I was not fearing the worst. I was still thinking about my eye.

When he came back, he was not alone. There were around ten or twelve students with him. I remember thinking how strange it was to suddenly have an audience.

He did not hesitate.

“Miss Connell, I’m afraid I don’t have good news. Your MRI has detected that you have a brain tumour.”

I froze. Everything after that feels like fragments. I can only recount it now because I have told this story so many times.

He suggested I return in a few weeks with my parents to go through everything properly. I left the room, went straight to the toilet and broke down. I called my dad while he was at work. I cannot imagine what went through his mind in that moment.

With his support, we sought opinion after opinion. Different surgeons. Different hospitals. Even internationally. The answer was always the same. It was inoperable. It was benign, but inoperable.

I later learned that benign does not mean harmless. It simply means it will not spread elsewhere in the body. It can still take your life.

I was given a prognosis of a benign but inoperable brain tumour. Every time I saw a consultant, I would ask, “How long do I have?”

They could never give me an answer.

“It could be months. It could be years. We just don’t know.”

When Hope Turned Into Questions

I came under the care of Rupert Obholzer, a skull base consultant in the ENT department at Guy’s and St Thomas’ Hospital. Sometime around 2008, although do not quote me on the exact year, I underwent Gamma Knife radiotherapy at The Gamma Knife Centre in London. My memory is not the sharpest these days, and Dad insists his is fading too.

For years afterwards, I was told the treatment had worked. I had annual MRI scans and each time I was reassured there were no changes. What I later discovered was that each scan had simply been compared to the one from the year before. Stable year to year looked positive. It was only after five years that someone compared the scans to my original MRI, taken before the Gamma Knife treatment. That was when it became clear that the tumour, which I now call Octopus, had in fact been growing.

The issue with my tumour is not only that it is inoperable. It is not a neat lump sitting harmlessly on the outside of my brain. It sits deep in the middle, resting on my brainstem. It has tentacle like extensions reaching into other areas, including my left ear canal and behind my left eye. That explains the balance problems and the vision issues that first brought me into hospital.

It also explains my childhood. I always had problems with my left ear. Trouble equalising on aeroplanes, pain with pressure changes, difficulty in water, gradual hearing loss. Each time I was given antibiotics and told it was another ear infection. No one ever looked deeper. Had an MRI been done back then, they may have seen it for what it was. Not infection. The tumour growing quietly within my ear.

Debulking Surgery And More Treatment

In 2012, I underwent debulking surgery with my skull base consultant, Mr Rupert Obholzer, alongside neurosurgeon Nick Thomas at King’s College Hospital in London. The aim was not to remove the tumour completely, but to reduce it enough to allow for further radiotherapy the following year.

Less than five percent of the tumour was removed. Because of where it sits and how it wraps itself around vital structures, removing more would have caused greater damage. It was a delicate balance between doing something and doing too much.

Recovery was not straightforward. While healing from the initial surgery, I had to undergo two further procedures due to infections around the scar tissue. I spent eight weeks in hospital and was eventually sent home with a PIC line. A nurse came to my home four times a day to administer intravenous antibiotics. That became my routine.

In 2013, I began another course of radiotherapy, recommended by my clinical oncologist, Mr Ronald Beaney at Guy’s and St Thomas’ Hospital. This time it was an intense form of treatment called Tomotherapy, delivered over six weeks.

Every weekday, I travelled from Barnet to Westminster on public transport for treatment, supported by friends and family who helped me get there and back. The sessions themselves were not painful. In the beginning, I felt very few side effects. It was loud, restrictive and uncomfortable, similar to being inside an MRI scanner. The sensation was almost suffocating.

The strangest part was losing my taste buds and having a constant metallic taste overpowering everything.

By the end of the six weeks, I was completely exhausted. The daily travelling took its toll just as much as the treatment itself. Fatigue has been a constant companion since my diagnosis. Some days I function well. Other days, I cannot. I have learned to live with that rhythm, even if I never fully get used to it.

Miracle's Do Happen

From 2013 to 2014 I was mostly single. A few flings, plenty of dating apps, even a couple of dating shows, but nothing serious. I had accepted that maybe that part of life just was not going to fall into place for me.

Then in 2014 I was set up on a blind date with Dean Forster. Six months later we were engaged.

One evening, I called Dean while he was driving home from work and asked him to pick up a pregnancy test. He genuinely thought I had lost the plot. I had undergone so much radiotherapy that we assumed my fertility would be affected. I had a copper coil fitted. I had even recently booked in privately to be sterilised. On top of that, I had always been warned that pregnancy could, and probably would, put my life at risk. We already knew from my first pregnancy years earlier that the rise in progesterone had fuelled my type of tumour, a meningioma.

But that night, I did the test.

It was positive.

I remember screaming, crying and laughing all at once. Dean ran upstairs in disbelief. Through everything, he reassured me that whatever decision I made, he would stand by me.

That same evening, we had tickets booked at The Bull Theatre in Barnet to see a medium, Tracy Hicks. We went along as planned with Dean’s boss, Greg from GI Salons, and his partner. No one knew about the test. We were not ready to say a word.

After the show, we were standing at the bar having drinks when Tracy came over to greet Greg, who had seen her before. She introduced herself to us and when she got to me, she pointed at my stomach and said, “Congratulations by the way. You’re going to be fine.”

The room fell silent. The looks on their faces were pure disbelief. They all knew my medical history. They all knew how unlikely, how risky, how impossible this felt.

In that moment, I knew no one was going to stop me from having this baby.

I have always believed that things happen for a reason. Sometimes we do not understand it straight away. Sometimes it takes time. And sometimes, the reason arrives so clearly that it feels like it has just slapped you in the face.

a risk worth taking

I chose to continue with the pregnancy.

At every appointment, my oncologist reminded me that it was their duty to ask whether I had considered a termination. From a medical perspective, it was high risk. They did not have clear answers. We already knew that during my first pregnancy, the rise in progesterone had triggered growth in my meningioma. This time could be the same. Or worse.

Yes, I was taking a huge risk. I did not know how far I would get. I did not know whether I would survive the pregnancy. We did not even know if the tumour was fully under control at that point.

I would not say I enjoyed being pregnant. I was anxious and uncomfortable for much of it. But I loved my bump. I loved the life growing inside me. After years of battling my illness and believing children might never be possible, this felt like a miracle I was not prepared to give up on.

At thirty four weeks, I was admitted to hospital. Earlier scans had shown no tumour growth, which was a relief, but I developed Pelvic Inflammatory Disease. The pain was intense and the pressure in my head became overwhelming. Naturally, everyone feared it could be tumour related.

While admitted to Barnet General, a routine ultrasound revealed that my baby had a missing corpus callosum. I was told there was up to a fifty percent chance of severe learning difficulties. Once again, termination was raised as an option.

Once again, I refused.

I had chosen not to have earlier screening tests because no matter how my baby arrived into the world, she was mine. I was not walking away. Not without a fight.

The very next day, 18 March 2016, I was rushed in for an emergency C section. The pain had become unbearable.

And then she was here.

Ruby Margaret Christine Forster.

Weighing just 4.6 pounds.

Different Paths, Same Love For Ruby

Dean and I were together for seven years. Our separation was not sudden, and it was not explosive. In December 2021, we made the decision together to go our separate ways.

We rarely argued. There was no dramatic fallout. We simply recognised that we were heading in different directions. Dean is naturally laid back, very go with the flow. I have always been full steam ahead. Over time, those differences became clearer.

Ruby was, and always will be, our priority. We handled everything as thoughtfully as we could. We slept in separate rooms for a while and gently prepared her for the fact that her dad would be moving out. Of course she missed having him at home, but she slowly adjusted. We did everything possible to make the transition as soft and steady as it could be for her.

On a personal level, we both believed we would remain in each other’s lives. Not just for Ruby, but because underneath it all we were good friends. We are both kind, loving people. That part never disappeared.

The Accident

In January 2019, Ruby and I were involved in a car accident. A car drove into us whilst my car was stationed and I was on the pavement side putting Ruby into her car seat. My car was hit at force which threw the car onto my head. Subsequently, my Hemifacial Spasms which I used do get once every two weeks or so, increased to up to 12 spasms a day especially on a cold day.

My anxieties hit the roof! I couldn’t and wouldn’t go out anywhere because I was worried about what others would think of me, plus the spasms have become increasingly painful, paralysing my tongue when it happened in the process.

After a year of psychotherapy treatment over zoom, I was finally able to show my face on camera and in public. Hence why you can’t get rid of me now!

retraining my brain

Back in 2009, I had almost lost hope of walking properly again. The symptoms from my tumour were so debilitating that I was clinging to walls just to move around. Balance, coordination, strength, everything felt compromised.

Then Dad introduced me to someone he used to work with who had exactly the same type of tumour as me, a meningioma. When I met him, he was walking around like anyone else. Smartly dressed, relaxed, completely mobile. I was stunned. He had been diagnosed ten years earlier and had once been wheelchair bound.

He told me something that changed everything. When doctors had warned him he might never walk again, he chose to fight it physically. He joined a gym and focused purely on balance and coordination work. He rebuilt himself.

Dad signed me up to David Lloyd in Finchley. I will never forget my first day. I was stumbling up the stairs, barely able to keep steady, and practically collapsed onto the reception desk. I told them I was not there because I wanted to be. I was there because I had to be.

What happened next still amazes me. I was given personal training five hours a day, five days a week, for six weeks. We worked relentlessly on strength, balance and coordination. In six weeks, I completed a programme they expected to take six months.

A year later, I ran the London 10K in support of Brain Tumour Research.

That chapter taught me something powerful. My tumour may sit in my brain, but I could still retrain it. I could still challenge it. I could still refuse to accept the limits placed in front of me.

Cue Rent A Date

While I was stuck between four walls recovering, I kept receiving messages on MySpace from random men saying things like, “You’re fit, fancy a date?”

So I thought, fine. Put your money where your mouth is.

If they wanted a date, they could pay for one and the money would go towards funding vital brain tumour treatment. That was the beginning of Rent A Date For Charity.

At first, it was members of the public putting themselves forward to be auctioned to the highest bidder, with proceeds going to brain tumour charities. But it did not stay small for long.

Before I knew it, the idea had gained worldwide coverage. I built a website. It grew quickly. Celebrities such as Cheryl Baker, Sophie Anderton, Dev from Coronation Street, Jasmine Harman from A Place in The Sun, Joe Swash and Susan Bookbinder all offered themselves up for auction, with proceeds supporting brain tumour related causes.

It was bold. It was different. And it worked.

But it was also exhausting. Back then, social media was not what it is today. I did not have a team. Everything was manual. Everything was on my shoulders. As my health declined again, so did the project. What had become my baby eventually had to stop.

But ideas like that do not disappear forever.

In 2021, I partnered with Brain Tumour Research with a goal of raising £1 million to help bring real hope towards finding a cure. That goal still stands.

Alongside leading the Officially Lisa Connell Fundraising Group, I am now relaunching Project Go Go.

This time, I am not doing it alone.

I have a team behind me. Team Connell. I have support, structure and strength around me.

And this time, we are only just getting started.

Finding my purpose

I am not extraordinary. I am just like everyone else. I have made mistakes. I am far from perfect and I do not pretend to be. But I can say, hand on heart, that I am a better person today than I have ever been.

What does not break you really can make you stronger. Not in a cliché way, but in a quiet, lived through way.

I choose now to live as fully as I can. I genuinely believe my path, as painful and unpredictable as it has been, has shaped my purpose. Being diagnosed with a brain tumour was not something I would ever have chosen, but it has led me to where I am now. Raising awareness. Raising funds. Creating initiatives that give hope. Supporting others who are walking a similar road.

I do not know exactly what I believe in. I would not say I believe in God in a traditional sense. But I do believe in something. I believe in energy. In angels. In signs. In the idea that someone, somewhere, is watching over me. A guardian angel, perhaps.

Nothing in my life has ever run smoothly. There have been gruelling months, even recently. But step by step, I keep moving forward.

And here I am.

Still standing. Still fighting. Still telling my story in the hope that it helps someone else feel less alone on theirs.

Building A Legacy That Outlives Me

Influential Stars did not appear out of nowhere. It is the result of everything I have lived through. The chaos. The illness. The fundraising. The ideas that would not leave me alone.

Over time, I realised that my story was never just about survival. It was about impact.

Influential Stars officially launched in January 2024 as an online platform designed to turn influence into meaningful support for charities across the UK, as well as families raising funds for life saving treatments and life changing opportunities.

It is built on a simple belief. That anyone with a network and a big heart can make a difference.

As of February 2026, we have raised £7,160.13 through campaigns led by our Influential Stars and their communities. That number will continue to grow, but what matters more to me is what it represents. People choosing to use their voice for something bigger than themselves.

In light of the years I have spent raising awareness around brain tumours, I was recently invited to become Patron of Yorkshire’s Brain Tumour Charity. That is something I am incredibly proud of. To move from patient to patron feels deeply personal.

I am also listed as a high profile supporter on The Brain Tumour Charity’s website. For someone who once sat in a hospital cubicle being told I had an inoperable tumour, to now be recognised by organisations working to change the future of this disease is something I do not take lightly.

It tells me one thing clearly.

My voice is being heard.

And I intend to keep using it.

Living With Uncertainty, Choosing Purpose

My tumour began growing again in 2020. I personally link it to the onset of perimenopause, though there is not enough research yet to say that definitively. Hormones and meningiomas are closely connected, but the science still has gaps.

In 2025, I finally received some steadier news. My most recent scan showed that the tumour had remained stable for twelve months. That stability matters.

My next MRI is due in March 2026.

Living with an inoperable brain tumour means accepting that certainty is not an option. I have never been given a timeline. No one has ever been able to tell me how long I have.

But I refuse to let that define how I live.

Instead, I focus on what I can control. Building Influential Stars. Spending meaningful time with Ruby. Creating impact that will outlive me.

The tumour may sit in my brain.

But it does not sit in control of my life.

If my story has resonated with you in any way, or inspired you to make a difference, I would love to hear from you.

You can also explore how to support the causes close to my heart and help raise awareness around brain tumours.

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