The Future I Thought I Had
When I was younger, the future was something I thought belonged to me. I imagined it like a wide open road: birthdays, graduations, family trips, Sunday dinners, Christmas mornings, anniversaries. I thought I would have time to build a life brick by brick, to watch plans unfold in the natural order.
I pictured myself at graduations, clapping too loudly when my nieces and nephews walked across the stage. I thought I’d cry at weddings, dance barefoot on the reception floor, and someday hold their babies in my arms. I thought I’d be there for the ordinary moments too—the first heartbreaks, the job interviews, the kitchen table conversations that shape a person more than any milestone ever could.
And, of course, I thought I’d grow old with my husband. I thought we’d argue about dishes, about how fast he drives, about what to watch on TV, and we’d laugh about it all five minutes later. I thought we’d grow into each other in the way people do over decades—settling into the comfort of always, of forever.
But cancer has a way of stealing the tomorrows you thought were guaranteed. It tears the pages out of the story you thought you were writing, until the future feels less like a promise and more like a gamble.
Why I Started Writing
It started small. A note tucked into a birthday card. A scribble in the margins of a notebook. But over time, I realized I was doing more than leaving scraps of myself behind—I was building a collection of love letters for a future I may never get to see.
There’s something about letters. Unlike texts or emails, they live in the real world. You can hold them, fold them, reread them until the paper is soft at the edges. You can cry into the ink and it smudges, leaving proof that the words mattered. Letters carry presence. They say: I was here. These were my hands. This was my heart.
So I began to write.
Letters of Love
I wrote to my husband.
I told him that he was the best thing I ever said “yes” to. That no matter what cancer stripped away from me—hair, health, energy—it never even touched the love I carried for him. I told him to remember the little things: the way he always made me laugh even when I swore I couldn’t, the way his hand around mine made the world feel less terrifying, the way his motorcycle still makes me think he’s some kind of superhero. I told him that even if he moves forward one day, even if he finds someone new, nothing will ever erase that he was my first great love, and I will always belong to him in some way.
I wrote to my nieces and nephews.
For birthdays, I tucked in tiny notes: I’m so proud of you, even from here. Be kind, because kindness will always outlive beauty. Dream bigger than the world tells you to, because you deserve the sky, not just the ceiling. For their graduations, I wrote about the courage it takes to step into the world. For their weddings, I wrote about love and how it’s not always easy, but it’s always worth choosing. For the day they hold their own babies, I wrote about how my love will stretch to their children too, even if I never meet them.
I wrote to my mom, about yellow daisies and inside jokes and a love that never expired.
I wrote to my best friend, because there are things you don’t always say out loud to the people who matter most. I told her that she gave me the kind of friendship people spend lifetimes looking for, and I wanted her to know she was one of my greatest gifts.
I wrote to my chosen family, i tried to put into words a gratitude that exceeds anything i could fully explain.
And yes, I even wrote to Mojo. It may sound silly, but I wanted to put into words what he’ll never understand with his ears but has always known in his bones—that he saved me more times than I can count. That he made the bad days softer, the lonely nights less empty, the pain a little more bearable just by being here.
Hope and Grief in Every Envelope
Some days, writing these letters feels like hope. Like I’m cheating death, slipping myself into milestones I won’t physically see. I get to imagine their faces, their smiles, the exact moments when my words might find them. I get to be part of a tomorrow that isn’t mine.
But other days, it feels unbearably heavy. Like I’m rehearsing my own absence. Like I’m practicing goodbye over and over again. Every envelope sealed is a reminder that my time is fragile, and that someday these pieces of paper may be all that’s left of me in someone’s hands.
And yet—I keep writing. Because the grief is real, but so is the love. And love deserves to be recorded.
What I Hope My Letters Carry
I don’t know what my letters will feel like when they’re opened. I don’t know if they’ll soften the sharpness of grief, or if they’ll make the missing ache even more. Maybe they’ll be read once and tucked away. Maybe they’ll be pulled out over and over again until the paper wears thin.
But I hope they remind the people I love that I was here. That I mattered. That I fought, that I loved, that even when I couldn’t stay, I tried to leave as much of myself behind as I could.
Because maybe that’s all legacy is: not the big, dramatic gestures, but the small, steady ways love keeps showing up long after we’re gone.
Mojo’s POV
“Mom says she’s writing letters for later. But I think every day with her is already a letter. When she scratches my ears, when she lets me steal the blanket, when she whispers ‘I love you’ into my fur—that’s all I need. I don’t need paper to remember her. I just need right now.”
✨ Closing Note
If you’ve read this far, thank you for holding space for me. These words are messy, but they’re pieces of my heart, and if they land with you, I hope you’ll pass them on to someone else who might need them.
If you’d like to keep walking through this story with me, you can find more on the [Mojo and the Mess homepage]—resources, more posts, and the ways you can support us.
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