Mojo and the Mess

There are words that live in my chest that will never leave my lips.

They don’t belong in a text message or a hospital hallway.

They’re too heavy for casual conversation, too sharp to lay at anyone’s feet.

So, I keep them here—in these letters I’ll never send.

To My Younger Self:

You thought the world was wide and endless.

You counted down days to graduations, vacations, birthdays—always looking forward.

You thought “sick” was something that happened to other people, to older people, to people who weren’t you.

I wish I could reach back through time and grab your hands. I’d tell you:

Dance longer. Take more pictures. Stop hating your thighs. Laugh with your mouth wide open.

You thought you had time to grow into yourself, to collect more firsts before you had to face any lasts.

I wish you knew how beautiful you already were, and how fast things can change.

I wish you knew that someday, your biggest accomplishment would be getting out of bed on a day when the world feels impossible.

To Cancer:

You came into my life like a thief in the night, and you never leave.

You slithered into my body, rearranged my cells, and made my life a calendar of appointments, labs, and quiet dread.

You take and take and take. My energy. My hair. My sense of safety in my own skin.

I have screamed at you in the shower, cursed you in my sleep, and cried silent tears in cold hospital rooms because of you.

People like to say, “Cancer made me strong.”

No. I was strong before you. You just forced the world to see it.

You can break my body, but you don’t get my soul.

To My Favorite Nurse:

You might not even remember me one day.

To you, I’m one of dozens of patients, another wristband, another vitals check.

But to me, you are safety.

You know when to make a joke and when to stay quiet.

You’ve learned to read the fear in my face before I even speak.

You are the person I trust with the smallest pieces of my courage.

I may leave your floor one day and never come back, but your kindness will stay with me forever.

In a world of cold machines and bad news, you are proof that warmth survives.

To the Version of Me Before Diagnosis:

I still see you sometimes in pictures I forgot to delete.

Your hair shiny, your eyes full of plans.

You were rushing everywhere—late to work, late to dinners, always moving, always sure there’d be time to slow down later.

You didn’t know your body was a battlefield waiting to happen.

You didn’t know one phone call could divide your life into “before” and “after.”

I miss your lightness.

I miss the way you could make plans months out without wondering if you’d still be here.

But I also honor you—because every ounce of strength I carry now comes from you.

Sometimes I wonder what will happen to these letters when I’m gone.

Maybe they’ll vanish with me.

Or maybe they’ll float around the world, invisible, whispering to the people I wish could read them:

I loved you. I missed you. I was here.

Mojo’s POV:

Hi. It’s me. Mojo. Keeper of Secrets and Official Snuggler of Heavy Days.

I don’t understand letters or words or why Mom cries sometimes when she writes in her phone.

But I know when her heart is heavy because it smells different—sadness has a scent, and I can feel it in the way she breathes.

When she writes these letters, I curl against her side.

I guard them with my little grey body, like they’re bones only I can protect.

I don’t know who these letters are for, but I know they live in her chest with the same rhythm as her heartbeat.

And I know this:

She’s still here.

And as long as she’s here, I’m here.