There’s a version of me no one sees. The one curled up on the bathroom floor, shaking, because my body has betrayed me again. The one who stares at the ceiling at 4 a.m., wondering how many more nights like this I’ll have to survive.
People see the updates, the pictures, the words I share. But they don’t see the truth in its ugliest form. They don’t see the way my skin burns from treatments, or how food turns to poison in my mouth. They don’t see the way my chest aches with fear when my body feels weaker than yesterday.
The Things I Don’t Say
The mess no one sees is the rage I swallow when someone tells me I look good — as if my appearance means my insides aren’t crumbling. It’s the shame of feeling like a burden, like I’m dragging down the people I love most.
It’s the nights I lie still, pretending to sleep, while tears slip quietly down my face because I don’t want Pete to know I’m breaking again. It’s watching him carry more than anyone should have to, and hating myself for being the reason.
It’s the thought — the one I never say out loud — that maybe everyone’s lives would be easier if I weren’t here to take up so much space with my sickness.
Treatment Fatigue
No one talks about how exhausting it is to always be in treatment. Not just the infusions, the pills, the injections — but the constant cycle of preparing, recovering, and bracing yourself for the next round.
It’s the nausea that clings for days after chemo, even when the drip is long gone. It’s the bruises up and down my arms from endless IVs. It’s the taste of metal in my mouth that makes water feel like poison.
It’s the exhaustion that doesn’t go away with rest. The bone-deep fatigue where even brushing my teeth feels like climbing a mountain. The way I have to measure every ounce of energy — do I shower today, or do I save my strength for making it to the doctor’s office?
It’s being chained to pill bottles and side-effect charts. Medications that might save my life but also steal pieces of it in the process — my appetite, my hair, my sleep, my memory. I lose track of who I was before all this because my entire identity now feels wrapped in what my body is losing.
The Slow Decline
The mess no one sees is how my body keeps giving me away, little by little. The way my legs shake just from standing too long at the counter. The way I sometimes gasp for air when I’m only walking from one room to another.
It’s the swelling in my face from steroids. The weight loss that makes my clothes hang wrong. The scars that map my skin like reminders of every battle my body has fought and lost.
It’s dropping things because my hands don’t grip like they used to. It’s the brain fog that leaves me searching for words I’ve known my whole life. It’s the quiet humiliation of needing help with things I used to do without thinking.
The decline isn’t loud. It creeps in quietly. A little weaker this week. A little slower the next. Until one day I realize that even the smallest tasks now leave me breathless.
The Loneliness That Lingers
It’s the silence when the messages stop. The sting of realizing people have moved on, while I’m still here, trapped in the same nightmare. It’s the emptiness of scrolling through pictures of friends living lives I’ll never get back to.
It’s the way I paste on a smile so people don’t pull away, so they don’t feel the heaviness I carry. I’ve learned to water myself down, to serve the version of me that’s palatable. The fighter. The strong one. The girl who “inspires.”
But that’s not the whole truth. The whole truth is messy, ugly, and so heavy it sometimes feels unbearable.
When It’s Too Much
There are days I don’t want to keep going. Days I want to stop all of it — the needles, the side effects, the false hope. Days I feel like my body is a cage I’ll never escape.
And yet I don’t say it. Because people want the hopeful story. They want the warrior. Not the broken girl who sometimes whispers to herself, I can’t do this anymore.
Why I Still Write
And still… even in that darkness, there are anchors that keep me tethered. Mojo’s head pressed into my chest, reminding me that love doesn’t care about broken bodies. Pete’s hand, steady even when mine shakes. The few who still show up, who still remind me I’m not invisible.
That’s why I write. Not because it’s pretty, not because it’s polished, but because if I show you the mess no one sees, maybe someone else will finally feel brave enough to say: me too.
“The strongest smiles often hide the heaviest mess. Don’t mistake survival for simplicity.”
Mojo’s POV 🐾
Hi, it’s me, Mojo. I know this blog was heavy — but that’s because my mom is honest, and the truth is heavy sometimes. But here’s the other truth: every night, no matter how messy or dark, I climb into her lap. I press my head against her chest. I remind her she’s still here, still loved, still mine.
You might not see the mess, but I do. And I love her through it anyway. That’s my job. And if you’re reading this, I hope someone — furry or human — is loving you through your mess too. Because you deserve that. Always.
If you’re still here, thank you. Thank you for loving us through the mess. Please subscribe, share, or send this to someone who might need to know that even when life feels unbearable, their story still matters.
Leave a comment