I hope you never have to read this.
I hope you’re still untouched by words like oncologist, infusion, and prognosis.
I hope the hardest decision in your day is what to wear, not what medication to inject into your stomach.
But if you are here…
If someone just said the word “cancer” and everything inside you cracked open—
Then I’m so, so sorry. And I’m also so damn proud of you for finding your way to these words.
Because what’s ahead of you? It’s not fair. It’s not kind. It’s not even survivable for some of us.
But I will not lie to you.
I won’t wrap it up in pink ribbons or inspirational hashtags.
I will tell you the truth, the real stuff—because that’s what I needed when it happened to me.
💥 You don’t have to be brave every day.
They’ll call you a warrior. A fighter. A “badass.”
But you will have days when all you do is cry in bed and pray for a break that doesn’t come.
That doesn’t make you weak. That makes you human.
You can be angry. You can curse God, medicine, the universe.
You can scream into your pillow and sob in the bathroom stall at the clinic.
You can cancel plans and say “I can’t do this today” without explaining why.
Strength isn’t loud. Sometimes, it’s just breathing through the nausea.
Sometimes, it’s showing up even when you wish you wouldn’t wake up.
🕳 People will leave. Let them.
You’ll learn very quickly that your illness is inconvenient for other people.
You’ll hear less from friends who once loved you loud. You’ll notice who only checks in after you post a selfie that doesn’t look “too sick.”
You’ll be told, “You’re so strong, I didn’t think you needed help.”
As if you being resilient made them off the hook.
But you will also gain people who show up in quiet, life-saving ways—
The friend who memorizes your meds. The one who texts from the waiting room, just to say “I’m outside if you need to cry.”
The nurse who doesn’t flinch when you’re sobbing.
The stranger who messages you online just to say, “Me too.”
Hold onto those people with both hands.
Everyone else can go.
⚔️ Advocate like hell, even if they roll their eyes.
You’re going to meet professionals who think they know your body better than you do.
You’re going to have to fight for referrals, meds, answers, timelines, pain relief, access to the care you deserve.
You are going to be called dramatic.
You are going to be told “You’re young, you’ll bounce back.”
You are going to be told your concerns can wait.
Sometimes, they’ll speak to the person who came with you instead of to you.
(Yes, even when you’re the one with the IV in your arm.)
Don’t shrink.
Ask questions. Take notes. Refuse procedures. Request different nurses.
Be “that patient.”
Be the girl who won’t shut up until someone listens.
🧬 Your body will betray you—but it’s still yours.
There will be moments when you look in the mirror and don’t recognize the girl staring back.
She might be bald. Bloated. Burned.
She might be thin from the vomiting or swollen from the steroids.
She might have scars where softness used to be.
You are allowed to hate the mirror.
You are allowed to grieve what’s been stolen.
But please, don’t stop loving her. Don’t stop caring for her. She is still here. And she is still fighting for you.
🕯Some days will feel unlivable. Stay anyway.
You’ll have days where everything hurts—physically, emotionally, spiritually.
Where you feel like a burden, a shell, a checklist of symptoms.
Where you wonder if this is what the rest of your life will look like.
It won’t be. Even if it’s hard forever, it won’t always be this hard.
You’ll still laugh—maybe so hard you pee a little because the chemo killed your pelvic floor.
You’ll still love—maybe with more intensity than you knew was possible.
You’ll find joy in the small things:
a dog curled into your side, the taste of peanut butter toast after a week of nausea, a song that hits you in the chest at just the right time.
You’ll make friends in hospital gowns who know what it’s like to live on the edge of goodbye.
So stay. Please. Even when it feels impossible.
🖊 And if you ever wonder if anyone understands, come back here.
Find me in these words.
Even if I’m not here anymore. Even if my name is just a tag on a blog called Mojo and the Mess.
Know that I meant every word. And I meant them for you.
Because there’s a girl inside you who didn’t choose any of this, but still shows up anyway.
And she deserves to be seen. Loved. Heard.
Even in the worst moments.
Even when she doesn’t feel like a fighter at all.
🐾 Mojo’s POV: “My Human is Magic, and So Are You.”
Hi. I’m Mojo. I’m a French Bulldog and a full-time emotional support loaf.
I’m not a doctor. I don’t wear a vest. I don’t bark out diagnoses (I don’t bark at all, really—I’m more of a silent judger).
But I know when my human is hurting. I can smell it. I can feel it. I curl up beside her bones when they ache and stare her down when she forgets to drink water.
And when she cries? I kiss the tears off her face like they’re mine.
So if you’re sick—like her—know this:
You are not too much.
You are not a burden.
You are not alone.
There’s a soft, wrinkly-faced dog somewhere who would lay across your legs for 12 hours straight just to make sure you sleep.
And there’s a girl—my girl—who wrote these words for you when she had every reason not to.
So stay.
Eat a snack if you can. Take your meds. Let someone love you.
And if you can’t get out of bed today, that’s okay.
I’m already there, hogging the blanket.
Love,
Mojo 🐾
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