Mojo and the Mess

Every morning my body reminds me it isn’t mine anymore. That cancer is in charge now. I notice it in the smallest ways first — the way my arms ache from lifting nothing at all, how my legs tremble after just a few steps, how even sitting up feels like a task that requires planning.

It’s not sudden. It’s not dramatic. It’s slow. Cruel. Like quicksand that pulls me down inch by inch while everyone else keeps walking forward on solid ground. I am alive, yes. But I am also fading. And I feel it happening every single day.

There was a time when I trusted my body. When I believed in its strength without ever having to think about it. I ran, I danced, I lived without hesitation. I never once questioned whether my hands would steady themselves or if my legs would carry me where I needed to go. Now, everything is a negotiation. Can I make it to the kitchen without losing my breath? Can I hold a conversation without my voice breaking? Can I stand long enough to hug him back the way I want to?

The scariest part is knowing there’s no going back. That tomorrow will take more than today. That weakness isn’t something I can recover from anymore — it’s the new language my body speaks, and it gets louder with every sunrise.

I hate what it’s doing to the people I love. I see the fear in Pete’s eyes when I falter, when I gasp for air, when my body folds under the weight of itself. Babe, I wish you didn’t have to watch me unravel like this. I wish you could still see me the way I was before — strong, steady, whole. I want to shield you from every image that will linger after I’m gone, but I can’t. And that truth breaks me more than the sickness ever could.

And then there are the moments no one sees. When I sit in the dark and let the tears come because I’m too tired to hold them back. When I try to do something small, like tie the string of my hoodie, and realize my hands won’t cooperate. When I whisper into the quiet, I am not myself anymore. And I will never be her again.

It feels like mourning your own life while you’re still breathing. It feels like being both the funeral and the mourner. I miss myself — the version of me who was vibrant, who laughed without pain, who filled a room without effort. I don’t know how to stop missing her.

People call me strong. They call me inspirational. But I don’t feel strong at all. I feel fragile, like glass already cracked, waiting for the next shatter. And I don’t want to be remembered as someone who was always breaking. I want to be remembered as someone who loved so deeply that even in her weakest moments, she still gave everything she had left.

So if you see me smile, know that it costs me. If you see me stand, know it took everything. And if you see me weaker than before, know that I feel it too. I carry that loss every second. Every breath.

I don’t know how much longer I’ll keep losing pieces of myself. I don’t know when the weakness will finally win. But while I’m still here, I’ll keep writing, I’ll keep loving, and I’ll keep holding on to the smallest glimmers of joy. Because maybe that’s the only strength I have left to give.

Mojo’s POV

Mom says she’s getting weaker, but I don’t see it. She’s still the strongest thing in my world. When her hands can’t hold, I press my head into them. When her body can’t carry her, I stay close so she doesn’t feel alone. I don’t understand cancer, but I understand love. And no matter how much the world takes from her, I’ll be here — her shadow, her protector, her joy.

If you’ve made it this far, thank you for holding these words with me. Writing this isn’t easy, but it’s how I keep breathing through all of this. If any part of my story has touched you, I’d love for you to subscribe to the blog — not just to follow along, but to help carry these pieces of me into the world.

Every share, every subscription, every set of eyes on these words reminds me I’m not alone. It means more than I can ever say.