It’s strange to think it’s been two years since everything changed. What began as a well-intentioned step toward healing became the start of something I never could’ve seen coming. On June 28, 2023, I went in for what was supposed to be a safe and effective treatment called Transcranial Magnetic Stimulation (TMS). I left with injuries that have since shaped every part of my life. TMS flipped my life upside down when it damaged my brain.
What TMS Was Supposed to Be
TMS is often described as a non-invasive treatment that uses magnetic pulses to “wake up” underactive areas of the brain, usually for people with depression or anxiety. It was painted as low-risk and cutting-edge and a final option for those who felt out of options. But here’s the thing: I hadn’t tried psychiatric medication. I wasn’t someone who had “failed” every treatment. I didn’t even test high on the depression and anxiety forms. I was just a person trying to improve my health and trying to make the most thoughtful, least invasive choice I could. I thought I was seeking elevated care when my talk therapist recommended I seek out a psychiatrist. I didn’t know it would lead to a brain injury.
The doctors I trusted made it sound like this could be the thing that helped me become a “better” version of myself. I was told I needed this treatment to improve as a person. To become a better partner. A better future parent. I’d watched the hopeful testimonials, read the success stories, and believed them. Why wouldn’t I?
And the real kicker? The psychiatrist told me that she helped a large military population with this treatment. My husband sat across from the psychiatrist in uniform and I didn’t see the manipulation. Instead, I believed the psychiatrist even more.
But nothing could’ve prepared me for what happened the moment the machine turned on. I still remember that first pulse. My eyes filled with tears instantly and not from emotion, but from pain. Something was wrong. I didn’t have the words for it at the time, but I told the doctor it felt like an 8 or 9 out of 10 on the pain scale. The pain was sharp, overwhelming, and deep. I thought that would mean we’d stop but instead, I was told to keep going.
The Pressure to Say Yes
Before starting, I’d made it clear to the clinic that I couldn’t begin treatment right away because I had a marathon planned and a family trip coming up. Their staff said that was totally fine. But when I arrived for what I thought was a basic mapping session, the technician seemed ready to begin actual treatment on the spot.
My husband and I were taken aback. We brought up the fact that the doctor had pushed for the importance of completing 60 sessions without any interruptions. The tech downplayed it, saying it wasn’t a big deal. Still, we said we wanted to talk to the psychiatrist first.
When she came in, we shared our concerns again. Her answer had changed. Now she was saying a short break was fine. As long as I didn’t go too long between sessions, it wouldn’t ruin the outcome. That wasn’t what she’d said before, but somehow, in that moment, we were convinced. I said yes.
I wish I hadn’t. I didn’t feel ready. But I also didn’t feel like I could say no. Not without disappointing the people in the room. Not without derailing what was supposed to be a hopeful path forward to being a “better” person.
The Mapping Setup: Something Already Felt Off
To find the treatment spot, they taped a piece of paper across my forehead with ribbon-like strips to mark the center line of my head. They were trying to locate the motor cortex which was ideally done by finding movement in my thumb, then placing the treatment coil five centimeters forward from that point.
But they couldn’t find any thumb movement. The only movement came from my ring finger. Even though that’s technically three fingers off from where they were aiming, they used that point anyway.
Day 1: June 28, 2023
I’d been told it might feel like a tap, or maybe like a rubber band snap. Unusual, sure, but nothing alarming. The mapping taps were not comfortable, but I thought if I endured that, I could make it through the next 19 minutes.
But when the machine started, it felt nothing like that. It was sharp and electric like something piercing deep into my skull. It felt like an ice pick slammed by Thor’s hammer. My whole body locked up. I couldn’t speak. My eyes filled with tears almost immediately.
They kept going. The psychiatrist said it would get easier over time. That day, they only used 50% intensity. She mentioned they’d slowly work up to 120%. I just sat there, stunned and silent, for 19 minutes.
When it ended, I barely made it to the car before I broke down. At home, I collapsed into bed. I didn’t eat. Couldn’t think straight. I was drooling, staring at the wall, unsure what had just happened to me. Something in my brain felt different. Not in a good way.
I barely made it through the next day until it was time for the appointment.
Day 2: June 29, 2023
We only went back because we decided we’d leave if they didn’t take me seriously. I explained how painful the first session was. The tech seemed confused, like she didn’t believe me.
They brought someone else in, someone more experienced, they said. She told us she had checked with the psychiatrist and that it was okay to move forward. She adjusted the angle of the coil, lowered the intensity slightly.
But the pain was still there. I sat still, breath held, bracing for each pulse. Afterward, I felt dizzy and disconnected. Like something was missing in my mind. I told my husband it felt like I’d had a lobotomy.
They told us the doctor would be there the next day. I held onto that, hoping for answers.
Day 3: June 30, 2023
The next day, neither the psychiatrist nor the experienced tech was there. A much younger tech ran the session. She barely looked at me.
They handed me a little silk cap, saying it might help with the discomfort. It didn’t. The pain was worse. I cried through the treatment again.
I left feeling angry and confused. I had tried to explain that something was wrong. I kept saying it hurt. But no one seemed to take it seriously. I even thanked them as I left, because I didn’t know what else to do.
Part of me still wanted to believe it might help. I told myself I’d keep going unless it interfered with my marathon or my travel plans.
Then it did.
I showed up to run the marathon that I’d trained for but had to stop. My legs were fine, but my head and neck felt like they were collapsing with every step.
I canceled my trip. The pain wouldn’t let up. I couldn’t even lift my head some days. Even blinking hurt. I stayed in bed, barely able to move, wondering what I’d done to myself.
That’s when it finally hit me: this wasn’t a side effect or a rough start. This wasn’t my body adjusting. Something was seriously wrong. And it felt like it might not go away.
What I Know Now
Later, I found out the psychiatrist wasn’t even in the building during my treatments. She was out of the state. She hadn’t reviewed my case. She hadn’t spoken to the techs.
They lied. She had no idea I was being treated.
This wasn’t just poor communication or a bad experience. It was negligent. It was unsafe. It caused real harm.
TMS injured me. I wasn’t warned. I wasn’t protected. And I wasn’t given the truth.
When Things Started Going Wrong
It wasn’t long after that third TMS session that things really started to go sideways. I had already pulled out of the marathon, and I was hoping things would get better with time. But instead, the symptoms kept piling on. And I honestly didn’t know what to think.
The headaches got worse, the exhaustion was crushing, and even basic things like forming sentences, tracking with my eyes, or walking in a straight line started to feel impossible. Those close to me noticed, despite me thinking I was hiding it. I tried to keep running because my body begged for movement, but with every step I felt like my head was going to explode.
This didn’t feel like a temporary adjustment phase. It felt like my brain was glitching. I slept for the majority of the day despite sleeping long hours each night.
I was in a thick fog. My thinking was slow, and trying to find the right words felt like fighting through quicksand. I didn’t recognize myself.
About two weeks after that last session, someone from the psychiatrist’s office called to schedule a follow-up. I hesitantly agreed to a virtual visit, hoping she’d at least acknowledge that something was wrong. But when the doctor got on the call, she greeted me like I had just finished a regular round of treatments. She asked, “So how are you feeling with the sessions?”
I was seriously stunned. I felt confused. I hadn’t been back since that third TMS session. I answered her questions as she asked and I filled her in on my symptoms and the pain.
Then she said maybe my reaction was just a normal part of the process and that it might “clear up in time.” That was the moment I knew something wasn’t right. It felt like she either hadn’t been told what had happened, or she was just trying to cover up my adverse symptoms.
My husband jumped in and explained everything. Only then did she admit she had no idea I’d stopped coming. She said the staff never passed on any updates and that she’d been out of town with a family emergency.
We chose to believe her. We thought maybe now, with the full picture, we could move forward. We agreed to come up with a plan together. We thought we would have unwavering support.
But in hindsight, that conversation was just the beginning of a much bigger mess. I felt like I was drowning in a sea of people that didn’t understand.
Dismissed and Left in the Dark
This was the point where things took an even more painful turn. I had trusted my psychiatrist to help me through this, but instead of support, I started feeling ignored and brushed off. She answered and checked in, but there was absolutely no urgency to find answers.
When I reached out to her about how much worse I was feeling, her replies didn’t reflect the type of compassion I hoped. On July 19, weeks after my last session, she told me it had been too long for TMS to still be causing symptoms. She said we should start looking into other causes. I was stunned. It felt like she was waving off everything I was going through, as if it couldn’t possibly be connected. She mentioned getting me in for an MRI, but nothing ever came of it and instead, she questioned my primary care manager who was only a physician’s assistant.
I asked over and over for my records. A month passed with silence. When she finally reached out again, I already felt abandoned. It felt too late for the amount of pain I had endured while she continued to market this treatment to others in the area.
I sent her a long message explaining everything I was dealing with. I told her how I couldn’t sleep, how the exhaustion and head pain forced me to nap every day just to function. I told her I had to cancel seeing family and stop doing the things I loved like yoga and running. My thinking had slowed down. Conversations were hard. I felt cut off from the world around me.
At first, it seemed like she might actually listen. She asked me to report what happened to the device company, NeuroStar, and suggested checking in with other specialists. But the longer it went on, the more it felt like she was pushing everything back onto me. I couldn’t even think about what to make for dinner, do simple math, or remember basic yoga poses that I had practiced and taught for 10 years. How would I know where to begin searching for answers? It felt like asking a young child a difficult, senior-level math problem. I was still trying to understand what had happened to my own brain, and now I was expected to chase down answers too. It made zero sense.
Weeks passed without updates. No real follow-up. The only referral she gave was to a neurologist she knew personally. That appointment was disheartening and honestly led nowhere. The doctor smiled politely but clearly didn’t believe TMS could have caused any of this. She ran some surface-level tests and repeated them until I “passed.” Then she dismissed everything else as overstimulation, without ever explaining what that meant or documenting the rest of my symptoms, despite me asking her in a follow-up email.
Later, my psychiatrist messaged me with an update from NeuroStar. It felt like a direct and personal punch to the gut. They claimed they had never heard of side effects like mine and said most people just get a headache that clears up in a few days. The neurologist they consulted didn’t even think my case needed a closer look.
Reading that made me feel like I didn’t exist. Like everything I had been going through was invisible to them. Like I was no longer a shiny new client that could make them money. I started questioning myself. Was I exaggerating? Making it up somehow?
I kept trying. I saw other neurologists, but the story was the same. One said it sounded like stress and said I just needed to be patient and take some headache and migraine medications. One told me TMS couldn’t possibly cause a brain injury and gave me a vague diagnosis of an “untraceable migraine.” And a few others denied my referral, stating that they could not find the source of injury in my medical files. It led nowhere.
I felt like I was losing my mind. These were the people who were supposed to help, and instead I was being talked over, dismissed, and doubted at every turn. It was maddening. With every dismissal, I felt like I was ever sinking into a deep, dark hole.
Finally, Someone Believed Me
Months later, I got an appointment at the Amen Clinic. That’s where everything shifted. The brain scans confirmed what I had known deep down. There was clear damage in my left prefrontal cortex and my cerebellum. The very area where TMS had been targeted showed significant dysfunction.
I didn’t want to be right about this. I didn’t want to have a brain injury. But seeing it on the scan finally gave me something solid. I wasn’t imagining it. I wasn’t overreacting. I could now relate my sudden adverse symptoms that happened immediately after TMS to concrete evidence on a scan.
That validation didn’t fix everything, but it gave me back a little piece of myself. After being doubted and dismissed for so long, it meant everything to be seen and taken seriously. I was more confident in silencing my self-doubt and more confident in pushing to be seen by providers. These scans gave me the courage to keep advocating for the right care.
Still Searching for Answers
Even with my newfound confidence and brain scans showing clear injury, I kept running into walls. Doctors brushed off my symptoms, especially when I mentioned TMS. They called it stress or just headaches. But it was so much more than that. With one painful electromagnetic stimulation, my life drastically changed and I was not going to let others dismiss me anymore.
Advocating for myself has taken a huge toll. It’s exhausting, emotionally draining, and honestly, sometimes feels endless. This isn’t just discomfort. It’s a brain injury. Without proper diagnosis and early treatment, it can turn into Post-Concussion Syndrome, where symptoms last months or even years. And because it’s invisible, people don’t see how much it affects every part of life. Feeling misunderstood and alone has been one of the hardest parts.
The Fight to Heal
Recovery hasn’t been linear. I deal with fatigue, memory issues, and vision problems that make even simple tasks feel impossible some days. Walking my dogs or holding a conversation with anyone can leave me wiped out. I even tried to get back into massage therapy for a little bit and after one client, I was in bed for days recovering. It was too much for my system to handle and sadly, I had to end that chapter of my life.
Still, I’ve found a team to support the healing process. I’m working with craniosacral therapists, acupuncturists, physical and speech therapists, neuro-optometrists, and sports medicine doctors. Each one helps a different part of my brain and body. It’s slow, but there are signs of progress. I’m also doing daily therapy exercises and taking supplements designed to support nerve and brain repair.
Some of what I’m dealing with includes:
- Eye movement problems that make reading and tracking hard
- Double vision from convergence issues
- Depth perception difficulties
- Dizziness triggered by visual confusion
- Chronic neck and mid-back pain
- Sensory overload
- Trouble focusing, remembering, and thinking clearly
- Difficulty with speech and finding the right words
Every day, I work to regain what I lost. And every day I wish that someone had listened sooner. If my symptoms had been taken seriously right away, I know this path could have looked very different. But I am hoping that by sharing my story it will look different for someone else.
Realizing I’m Not the Only One
One of the turning points for me was realizing I wasn’t alone. I started connecting with others who had been injured by TMS. One doctor even mentioned seeing another patient with similar damage after just a few sessions. Online groups and posts from others reveal thousands of people sharing similar stories. It’s eye-opening and heartbreaking.
TMS is still advertised as non-invasive and safe, but that’s not the full picture at all. There are real risks, and too many people are being hurt without any warning, support, or accountability. There is also zero education on understanding the adverse symptoms of TMS and when to stop or start taking them seriously, and I see too many people online leaving it to blind faith that they will improve and so, too, will their depression.
Where I Go From Here
I’m going to keep telling my story. Not because it’s easy, but because I know how many people are quietly struggling just like I was. If this has happened to you, please know your pain is real. You’re not imagining things. And you’re not alone.
Keep speaking up. Keep pushing for the care you deserve. You’re worth it. Thank you for being here with me. I’ll keep sharing updates as I fight for healing, answers, and the respect every patient deserves.
