Sometimes I feel like I’m watching my life happen from behind a glass wall.
On the other side, people my age are living the lives I once imagined for myself. They’re getting married, buying homes, decorating apartments, planning vacations, building careers. Their milestones pile up like stepping stones, each one leading naturally into the next.
And then there’s me. Stuck on the other side of the glass. Sitting in waiting rooms with a plastic wristband digging into my arm. Lining up pill bottles on my nightstand like trophies of survival. Living in treatment cycles instead of calendar years.
The Parallel Lives
I scroll through social media, and it feels like I’m staring at a parallel universe.
- One friend posts about closing on their first home.
- Another shares photos of a vacation, smiling on a beach I’ll never see.
- Someone else is showing off a career milestone, a promotion, a dream job.
And me? I’m writing updates about my latest scans. Counting down to my next chemo infusion. Waking up with side effects that make even getting dressed feel like a battle.
I’m happy for them. Truly, I am. But their joy also slices me open because it’s everything I wanted, too. Everything I thought I’d have by now.
The Life I Imagined
My twenties weren’t supposed to look like this.
They were supposed to be messy and joyful. I wanted to fight with my husband about silly things like what color to paint the kitchen. I wanted to throw housewarming parties, eat takeout on the floor of our first apartment, make impulsive plans to travel just because we could.
I thought by now I’d be settling into a rhythm — building a life that felt full, exciting, and mine.
Instead, my twenties are filled with other kinds of “firsts.”
- First time sitting in an oncology ward.
- First time losing all my hair.
- First time hearing the words palliative care used in the same sentence as my name.
- First time watching my body age decades in a matter of months.
These are not the milestones I dreamed of.
The Canyon of Distance
That’s the thing about being young and terminally ill: the distance between me and everyone else my age keeps widening.
They move forward without even realizing it, stacking experiences like bricks — stronger, taller, steadier. And I stay in place, watching my body break down, watching doctors shake their heads, watching time slip through my fingers.
I feel like I’m living decades too soon in a world they don’t understand. My hair is gone, my bones ache, my heart is damaged, my body scarred. I’m 27, but sometimes I feel like I’m 70.
When my friends complain about deadlines or dream vacations, I’m trying to manage pain levels just to get through the day.
When they plan trips, I’m calculating how long I’ll be strong enough to sit upright.
When they post photos of dinners out, I’m deciding if I have enough energy to make it from the couch to the kitchen.
And yet, I sit in the same group chats. I scroll through the same timelines. I laugh at their stories. I nod and smile and say “congratulations.” All while quietly grieving the life that should have been mine, too.
The Loneliness No One Sees
There’s a loneliness in being young and sick that words barely touch. Most people my age can’t imagine what it’s like to measure time in treatment cycles instead of years. To live with a body that’s betraying you when you’re supposed to be at your strongest. To carry fear in your chest where dreams used to live.
It’s isolating to feel like you don’t fit anywhere.
- I’m too sick to belong with my peers.
- Too young to belong with most of the cancer community.
- Stuck in the middle — alive, but already grieving.
It’s the kind of loneliness that makes even joy feel heavy, because it’s laced with grief.
The Reminders That Keep Me Grounded
Still, I try to remind myself: my life has value, even if it doesn’t look like theirs.
Love and laughter matter just as much as milestones.
Mojo’s snores pressed against my side are worth more than any polished Instagram post.
My husband’s hand in mine on a quiet night means more than any promotion or paycheck.
Hugs, inside jokes, pizza dinners, stolen naps on the couch — those are milestones too.
But even as I hold onto that truth, the ache doesn’t disappear. The distance between me and everyone else my age is real. And no matter how much I try to bridge it, some days it feels like a canyon I’ll never cross.
“I am here. I am alive. But I am not where I thought I’d be — and that hurts more than I can say.”
🐾 Mojo’s Part
Okay, okay — it’s me, Mojo. Mom’s being dramatic again (she’s good at it). But let me tell you something…
She keeps comparing herself to other people her age. Houses, jobs, vacations — blah blah blah. But honestly? None of them have me. And that makes her the luckiest one, right?
She’s cooler than all of them because she has the best cuddle partner in the game, a Frenchie shadow who makes her laugh when she wants to cry, and a face that everyone secretly came here to see anyway (sorry, mom).
So yeah, the distance between her and everyone else might feel big sometimes. But from where I’m sitting? She’s got everything she needs.
💌 If this blog spoke to you, please subscribe, share it with someone who might need it, and help keep this little corner of honesty and love alive.
Leave a reply to alwayselectronic06c81330f4 Cancel reply