Mojo and the Mess

My body used to feel like home. A place I could live in without question, without fear. I didn’t think about the plumbing, or the wiring, or the roof. I didn’t stop to notice the foundation holding steady beneath me. I just moved through it, day after day, the way you move through your house without ever pausing to be grateful for the walls that don’t leak or the floors that don’t give out.

But now, it feels like a house falling apart, and I am trapped inside watching it crumble.

My bones are the foundation, and they creak louder every day. What once held me upright now feels fragile, unstable, like one shift too many could make everything collapse. My spine groans like beams left out in the rain. My hips and legs crack under the weight of simply existing. Every step is like walking through an old house you’re afraid might not hold you.

The walls — my muscles, my strength — are peeling, chipped, paper-thin. They no longer protect me from the cold winds of exhaustion that rush in uninvited. Once, I could carry groceries, dance in the kitchen, climb stairs without thinking. Now the walls buckle under the simplest loads.

My lungs are the windows. Once clear and open, they’re fogged and cracked. The air that should move easily through them now trickles, filtered and thin. Some days it feels like the windows are stuck shut — like no matter how much I push, there’s never quite enough air making its way inside.

My heart is the wiring, sparking under too much strain. It was built to carry a steady current, to quietly power every room without me noticing. But chemo, pain, and fear overload the circuits. There are times it stutters, skips, or surges. A fuse blows here, a light flickers there. And I wonder if one day the whole grid will go out.

And cancer? Cancer is the rot in the beams, the termites eating through wood, the mold creeping into every corner. It spreads in places I can’t see, hidden in attics and crawlspaces, moving faster than I can patch. I can paint over cracks. I can hammer nails into sagging boards. But deep down, I know the structure is compromised. No matter how many repairs I make, the decay keeps coming back.

People tell me I’m strong. That I’m “brave.” But strong doesn’t fix broken. Brave doesn’t stop a ceiling from caving in. There are days I feel like I’m living in ruins — sweeping up debris while pretending the foundation isn’t shaking beneath me. I paste on smiles like wallpaper over cracked drywall, hoping no one looks too closely. But I feel it. Every leak. Every fracture. Every piece of this house that can no longer protect me.

The cruelest part is remembering what it felt like when this house was whole. When I could run without pain. When my body answered me without hesitation. When I trusted that my walls were solid and my roof was strong. I look back at that version of myself and it feels like staring at old photographs of a home you once loved — a home that’s now unrecognizable.

And yet… I still live here. This house is still mine. I haven’t abandoned it, even as it betrays me. I sweep the floors, I patch the holes, I light candles against the dark corners. I fight the rot as best I can. Because even broken, this house still carries my laughter. It still shelters my love. It still holds my memories.

One day, I know it will collapse completely. One day, the beams will split, the roof will give in, and I’ll leave it behind. But until then, I will live inside this house the only way I know how: with love. I’ll open the windows when I can, I’ll sit in the rooms that still feel warm, I’ll cherish every inch that hasn’t yet crumbled. Because even a house falling apart can still hold a family. It can still hold a marriage. It can still hold a dog pressed close against my side.

Even as the foundation groans and the walls crack, there is life inside these rooms. There is love painted into every corner. And maybe that’s what makes this house — my body — worth staying in, even as it falls apart.

💌 If you’re still here, reading these words, thank you. This isn’t easy to share, but it’s how I keep breathing through the weight of it all. If this touched you, I’d love for you to subscribe to the blog and share it with someone else who might need it. Every set of eyes, every subscriber, every person who carries these words forward — it all reminds me I’m not alone in this falling house.