Mojo and the Mess

aka: Why I Write, Even When It Hurts

I know some people don’t get it.

They see my blog posts and think I’m attention-seeking.

That I’m oversharing.

That I’m trying to make cancer my personality.

Let me make something very clear:

This isn’t a pity party.

It’s a lifeline.

It’s a legacy.

It’s a record of a life interrupted—but not erased.

I write because it helps me breathe when my lungs feel crushed by the weight of scans and statistics.

I write because I know I’m not the only one going through this, and too many of us feel like we’re screaming into a void while people scroll past, sipping their coffee and thinking, “Damn, that’s sad,” before moving on with their day.

This blog is proof that I was here.

That I felt everything deeply.

That I fought like hell.

That I found humor in the mess.

That I loved my husband, my dog, my people—with everything I had left.

Some days, I post something and the response is massive.

Other days, it’s crickets.

And yeah, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting when a deeply personal piece is met with silence.

But I’ve learned something:

“When the Numbers Don’t Matter, but the Messages Do”

It’s easy to get wrapped up in views, likes, shares, and followers.

Social media trains us to value metrics over meaning.

But when I get a message from someone saying,

“Your words helped me feel less alone,”

or

“This made me cry because I finally felt understood,”

I’m reminded that connection > clicks.

I’m not doing this to go viral.

I’m doing this to leave something behind that matters.

Not for the strangers watching from a distance,

but for the people who truly see me.

And maybe even for the version of me that needed to read this before it all began.

This blog isn’t for those who think I’m “too much.”

It’s for the people who know that “too much” is exactly what’s needed to survive something like this.

So no, this isn’t a pity party.

This is a love letter to pain and persistence.

This is my loud, messy, inconvenient truth.

And if that makes someone uncomfortable?

They can scroll past.

🐾 Mojo’s Footnote:

Mom said this one was important. She cried while she typed, and I didn’t even try to climb on her laptop this time. I just sat there, pressed against her side.

She said, “This might be what I’m remembered for.”

So I gave her a look that said, You’ll be remembered for so much more than this. But this is pretty damn amazing.

And then I farted. For balance.

– Mojo 🐾