I’m 27.
I should be worried about figuring out what I want for dinner, not if my white blood cell count is high enough to survive the week.
Instead, I’m sitting under fluorescent lights while chemo drips into my chest.
A nurse tapes the line gently, like she’s afraid I’ll break.
(Spoiler: I already feel broken.)
When you get cancer in your twenties, you don’t just lose your hair.
You lose your place in the world.
You become an outlier in rooms that were never meant for you.
The Only Young One in the Room
Every time I walk into the infusion center, I brace myself.
For the stares.
For the awkward “You’re too young for this” from people who mean well.
For the ache of watching others my age post about beach trips or weddings or promotions — while I’m calculating how long I can sit upright before the nausea wins.
I try to smile.
But my gums are raw from mouth sores.
My skin feels like it’s burning from the inside out.
My bones hurt so bad I cry when I stand up.
I’ve counted every hair that fell out in the shower.
I’ve dry-heaved until my ribs felt bruised.
I’ve sat on the bathroom floor at 3 a.m., whispering to myself that it’ll pass — that I’m still here — even when my body doesn’t feel like mine anymore.
Mojo Doesn’t Care About the Mess
Through it all, Mojo doesn’t flinch.
He doesn’t get weird when I’m pale or crying or too tired to move.
He just follows me from room to room — a squat little shadow with unconditional love and zero judgment.
When I can’t sleep, he rests his head on my chest like he’s trying to keep my heart going.
When I can’t stop puking, he curls up beside me, tail twitching like a metronome for hope.
He doesn’t care that I’m not “strong” today.
He doesn’t care that I’m scared.
He just stays.
What They Don’t Tell You About Chemo in Your 20s
They don’t tell you that you might lose your fertility.
Or your friendships.
That some people will disappear because they don’t know what to say, and others will stay but never ask how you really are.
They don’t tell you how lonely it is when your timeline gets hijacked.
They don’t prepare you for the fear that never leaves.
The taste of metal that lingers.
The guilt of being the one who got sick.
The pressure to be “positive” when your entire body is begging you to give up.
They don’t tell you how brave you’ll have to be just to wake up and face it again.
But I’m Still Here
I didn’t ask for this, but I’m surviving it.
Not in the pretty, Pinterest-worthy way.
But in the real way — the painful, exhausted, snot-crying-on-the-floor kind of way.
And that counts.
I’m 27.
I have cancer.
And I’m still here.
Maybe that’s not inspirational.
Maybe it’s just honest.
But maybe honest is enough.
— Izzy & Mojo
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