There’s a version of my story people like to tell — the one where I’m strong, resilient, unshakable.
The one where I get knocked down but always get back up.
And yes, there’s truth in that.
But there’s another version, the one I don’t talk about much.
The one where I didn’t want to get back up at all.
There have been nights where I’ve laid in bed with the lights off, staring into the dark, thinking, I can’t do this anymore.
Not in the “I’m tired, I’ll try again tomorrow” kind of way.
In the deep, bone-heavy way that feels like you’ve already slipped halfway out of your own life.
There were mornings when I pulled the covers over my head and ignored every call and text, not because I was busy or asleep, but because I didn’t want anyone to convince me to keep going.
There were treatments where I sat in the parking lot long after my appointment time, keys still in the ignition, hands frozen on the steering wheel, trying to decide if I could just… not go in.
If I could just drive away and never come back.
There were moments — too many — where the pain was so constant and so loud that I wasn’t sure if this was living or just existing inside a body that had become a cage.
People will tell you to “hold on,” but they don’t tell you that sometimes you don’t want to.
Sometimes letting go feels like the only relief in sight.
And the thing about almost giving up is that it doesn’t feel dramatic or loud.
It feels quiet.
It feels like disappearing in plain sight.
But here I am.
Not because I found some magical strength.
Not because I woke up one day suddenly ready to fight again.
I’m here because, in those moments, something — or someone — reminded me there was still a piece of my life worth holding onto.
Sometimes it was my husband, holding my hand when I didn’t have words.
Sometimes it was a message from a friend that landed exactly when I needed it.
Sometimes it was just the sound of Mojo’s paws hitting the floor when he followed me from one room to the next, refusing to let me be alone.
The truth is, I don’t have a perfect, uplifting ending for this.
I still have days when I almost give up.
I still have days when I wish I could.
But every time I stay — every time I take one more breath, one more pill, one more step toward the next hour — it’s not because I’ve stopped being tired.
It’s because, for now, there’s still something here worth staying for.
Mojo’s POV:
Mom thinks she hides it well, but I always know.
I know when she doesn’t want to be here.
I know when the quiet is too heavy and the air feels different.
I know when she moves slower, or not at all.
So I stay close.
I curl up against her legs.
I follow her into every room.
I lay my head on her lap so she feels my weight and knows she’s not floating away.
I don’t have the words people use.
I don’t tell her she’s strong or brave.
I just tell her — in my way — stay.
Stay for the next belly rub.
Stay for the smell of dinner cooking.
Stay for another nap in the sun with me pressed against your side.
Because she’s my person.
And even on the days she almost gives up…
I’m not going anywhere.
-Mojo
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