Mojo and the Mess

People tell me all the time how strong I am. How brave I am. How inspiring I am for smiling through the pain, for posting about the truth of living with cancer, for keeping my sense of humor even when life feels unbearably heavy.

And some days, I want to scream: I don’t want to be strong.

Because the truth is, strength isn’t a choice I made—it’s the only option I was given. What else am I supposed to do? Lie down and disappear? Give up and stop trying? Strength is not some heroic act. It’s survival. And it’s exhausting.

When the Mask Slips

Some days I don’t want to be brave. Some days I want to collapse into the kind of crying that makes your whole body shake. Some days I want to say out loud how unfair this is, how angry I am, how much I hate carrying this weight around.

But people get uncomfortable when you stop being brave. They don’t know what to do with the messy parts—the despair, the bitterness, the grief that pours out in ugly ways. They prefer the “fighter,” the girl who never gives up, the girl who makes cancer look almost… manageable.

What they don’t see are the days I can’t get out of bed because every bone feels like it’s splintering. The days when I’ve thrown up until there’s nothing left, and my husband is standing there quietly holding out water and English muffins with peanut butter, begging me to take just one bite. The days when even sitting upright feels like climbing a mountain, so I let the world move on without me while I hide under the covers.

The Weight That Doesn’t Show Up on Scans

They don’t see how often I’ve stared at my pill bottles and thought, this can’t be my life.

They don’t see me clutching my chest when my heart races from chemo damage.

They don’t see the moments I’ve whispered, I can’t keep doing this, into the dark, hoping no one hears.

Being brave is not always beautiful. Sometimes it’s just putting one foot in front of the other when you’d rather not move at all.

And the worst part? I don’t just carry my own fear—I carry everyone else’s, too. The look on my mom’s face when she tries to hide her panic. The way my friends go quiet when I tell them the latest scan results. The heaviness in my husband’s shoulders when he thinks I’m not looking. I hate being the reason they’re hurting. I hate that I can’t make it easier for them.

The Truth About “Strength”

There are moments I don’t want to be inspirational. I don’t want to be anyone’s reminder to “live life to the fullest.” I don’t want to wear the crown of the brave little warrior girl battling her illness with grace.

I want to be messy. I want to be honest. I want to say: this is unbearable, and I’m tired of carrying it.

And maybe that’s the bravest thing I can do—admit it. To say I’m not always strong. To say there are days I want to quit. To say I am human before I am anything else.

Because if you’re reading this, and you’ve felt the same way—tired of being brave, tired of holding it together for everyone else—know this: you’re not failing. You’re not weak. You’re not less than.

You’re just human, too.

🐾 Mojo’s POV

Hi, it’s me, Mojo. Mom says she doesn’t always feel brave. That’s okay, because on those days, I’m brave for both of us.

When she can’t get out of bed, I curl up close and keep guard. When she’s sick, I nudge her hand until she remembers she’s still loved. When she cries, I sit so still it’s like I’m holding her together with just my heartbeat.

Brave doesn’t always mean fighting or smiling through the pain. Sometimes brave looks like staying, even when it’s hard. And I’ll never leave her side.

So if you don’t feel brave today, that’s okay. You don’t have to. Someone who loves you can be brave enough for both of you.

Love,

Mojo 🐾

✨ Closing Note

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