As a lawyer, I used to think advocacy was something I only did for others. After almost going blind, I learned the hard way that it’s also something I must do for myself.

After almost losing all of my vision, we found out I had a brain tumor. It started subtly. Squinting. Straining to focus. Black spots. Then struggling to read anything at all.

So I went to my doctor, and she sent me to an optometrist. My eyes looked “perfectly healthy.” But I still couldn’t see. Over the next few weeks, I went to see two more optometrists. I passed along, exam after exam, with no answers. Eventually, I saw a retina specialist. Still no answers. Still, no one thought to look behind the eyes.

Everyone was focused on the eye. But the eye wasn’t the issue. And I continued to be pushed through the medical machine to try and find out what the problem was.

The problem was pressure—building silently in my skull and slowly suffocating my optic nerve. And while everyone else missed it, my wife didn’t. She was the one who insisted that I push for answers. She was the one who urged me to ask about imaging.

Before my next appointment could happen, my vision turned into the worst headache I had ever known. “Go to the ER,” my wife (not-so-gently) insisted. I was stubborn. But she insisted. And so I went. While the pain continued and only got worse.

My father-in-law drove me to the hospital, and my parents met me there a few minutes later. It was about 9 p.m. on a Tuesday night, and my wife waited at home with our sleeping toddlers. And she continued to text all of us that we couldn’t leave the ER without a scan.

I asked the doctor myself, almost timidly: “Would it make sense to do a CT scan?” That one question changed everything.

They found a brain tumor. A sizable mass, roughly the size of a lime, sitting right behind my eyes. And all at once, the blurry vision made sense.

What I wish I had known

I wish I had pushed harder. I wish I had advocated more forcefully for myself when the first—or second—optometrist said everything looked fine. I wish I had asked for the scan sooner. Maybe I could have prevented some permanent damage to my optic nerve.

But here’s what I’ve also learned: When you’re inside the system, it’s incredibly hard to question it. Especially when you’re scared. Especially when you want to believe the people in charge have it all figured out.

So I followed the process. The process that failed me. But it also taught me something I’ll never forget.

From patient to partner

Before this, I considered myself a pretty compassionate professional. But this experience brought a new layer to how I show up for others. Because once you’ve been the person sitting in a hospital gown—terrified, exhausted and overwhelmed—while your wife sits at home nervously waiting for you to call her and tell her good news, you see people and situations differently.

I now understand how vulnerable it feels to say, “I don’t know what’s wrong, but something is.” I know how disorienting it is to go through a system that feels designed for speed, not care. I also know how powerful it is to have someone by your side saying, “We’re not leaving until we get answers.” That’s what I try to be now, for my family, my friends, my clients.

Before this, I might have felt skeptical if a client came to me with “something they read online” or challenged part of a strategy. Now? I welcome it.

Because what they’re really doing is what I didn’t do early enough: They’re advocating. They’re trying to understand and seeking to learn. They’re saying, “This matters to me. Please listen.” And I do.

Nobody knows their business better than they do. Nobody knows their story, their case, their team better than they do. Just like nobody knew my symptoms, my body, my instincts better than me and my wife.

Advocacy is a team sport

That’s the biggest lesson I’ve learned: Advocacy is not a solo act. It’s a team effort. I had my wife. I had my parents. I had doctors who treated me. And I had to bring my own voice to the table.

Now, I work the same way with my clients. I don’t see myself as the all-knowing expert at the front of the room. I see myself as a collaborator, a navigator, someone who walks with them, not ahead of them. Someone who has been down this path before and acts as a guide. A leader. But not a dictator.

There are still hard days. I live with the risk of apoplexy, a one-in-six chance that the tumor could swell, rupture and send me into emergency brain surgery. That reality humbles me, and it also drives me. Because I know how precious time is. I know how valuable it is to have a team you trust. And I know how important it is to speak up while focusing on the things that matter most.

What I see clearly now

The damage to my optic nerve is permanent. I won’t see like I used to. But in a strange way, I see more now than I ever have. At work, I see the person behind the policy. I see the employee behind the leave request. I see the client not as a case file but as a whole person or organization.

When a client comes to me with a question about accommodating someone’s medical condition, I don’t just think about compliance. I think about compassion. About culture. About the long game of treating people well. Because we’re not just in the business of law. We’re in the business of service. And service—at its best—is human.

Final thoughts

I don’t tell this story because I’m looking for sympathy. I tell it because it changed everything. It changed how I parent. It changed how I practice law. It changed how I partner with others in every area of my life.

Here’s what I hope you take away: You don’t have to wait until you’re in crisis to use your voice. You don’t have to be a doctor or a lawyer to ask good questions.

Zack Anstett helps employers navigate the ever-evolving landscape of U.S. employment law, from agency investigations and litigation to workplace policies and procedures. He lives in Raleigh, North Carolina, with his wife and their three young children.

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