Mojo and the Mess

I never set out to be strong. No one does. You don’t grow up dreaming of hospital bracelets or chemo chairs or learning how to smile through pain. Strength wasn’t something I wanted; it was something I was forced to find when life stopped giving me options.

What I’ve learned is that strength doesn’t look the way people imagine. It’s not big, bold, or shiny. It doesn’t always roar. Most days, it whispers. Strength is dragging yourself to yet another appointment when you’d rather curl up under the covers. It’s holding back tears until you’re alone in the shower. It’s swallowing the fear long enough to smile at your husband and tell him you’ll be okay — even when you’re not sure you believe it yourself.

Strength hides in the tiniest victories: getting out of bed on a morning when your body begs you not to, laughing in a moment when the grief feels endless, surviving a day you thought might break you. It’s not glamorous, and it doesn’t always feel like enough. But it’s there — steady, stubborn, and quietly keeping me alive.

I didn’t choose this kind of strength, but I’m learning to respect it. It reminds me that even in the middle of the mess — the tubes, the pills, the bills, the fear — I am still here. And maybe that’s the strongest thing of all.

💌 If you’ve found strength you didn’t know you had, even in the smallest ways, you’re not alone. I’d love for you to join me here in the mess — subscribe, share, or leave a comment. Maybe together, we can remind each other that surviving the day is strength worth celebrating.