Mojo and the Mess

“You don’t look sick.”

People say it with a smile, as if it’s a compliment. They mean well. They want me to feel good, to believe I’m pulling it off, that maybe I don’t seem like I’m carrying cancer. But what they don’t realize is how much weight those words hold, how sharp they can feel against a skin that’s already bruised by life.

Because what does sick look like?

Some people picture hospital gowns and wheelchairs, bald heads and pale skin. And yes, sometimes it does look like that. I’ve been there. I’ve sat tethered to IVs, swollen from steroids, drained of color by chemo. I’ve looked in the mirror and seen a stranger staring back.

But most of the time, sick doesn’t look the way you think it does. Sick looks like me—smiling at a family dinner, cracking a joke, posting a photo where the lighting is just right. Sick looks like me trying to show up, to be present, to be normal. And you’ll never know that twenty minutes earlier, I sobbed in front of the mirror because I hated what I saw.

You don’t see the swollen face that makes me avoid my reflection. The chest mapped with scars that remind me of every port, every surgery. The body that’s bloated, heavy, and unrecognizable after years of meds and treatments. I miss the girl I used to be—the one who could look in the mirror without flinching, the one who didn’t measure time by scan dates, the one whose body felt like her own.

So yes, maybe I smile. Maybe I laugh. Maybe I post a picture that looks “normal.” But don’t confuse those moments with healing. Don’t mistake my presence for peace. Being able to look okay on the outside doesn’t mean I am okay.

And honestly? Sometimes hearing “you don’t look sick” makes me feel invisible. It makes me feel like my pain doesn’t count unless it’s written all over my face. Like if I can pass as normal, then maybe people think I’m exaggerating. But invisible illness is still illness. My body is still at war, even if my face is smiling through it.

The truth is, I don’t want to look sick. I don’t want cancer to be the first thing anyone notices. But I also don’t want to feel like I have to prove my suffering just to be believed.

So when you see me smiling, know that it’s not the whole story. When you see me show up, remember that it probably cost me more than you’ll ever realize. And when you’re tempted to say, “You don’t look sick,” I hope instead you’ll say:

“You look beautiful.”

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

“How are you really doing?”

Because I promise you—behind the smile, behind the presence, behind the effort to seem normal—there’s still a girl standing in front of the mirror, mourning who she used to be, trying to make peace with who she is now.