Mojo and the Mess

I used to think “stage four” was the finish line of bad news. Turns out, there are levels inside levels. Cancer doesn’t just sit politely where it started—it packs a suitcase and decides to move into places you never expected. For me, it showed up in my brain.

They call it brain metastases. Sounds clinical, detached. Like it’s just a thing on a chart. But living with it is anything but detached. It’s headaches that feel like storms rolling in out of nowhere. It’s forgetting words mid-sentence and watching the people around me pretend they didn’t notice. It’s stumbling when you stand up and wondering, is this normal dizziness or is it the tumor talking?

What They Don’t Tell You

Nobody prepares you for the way it rewrites your relationship with your own mind. Your brain is you. It’s your thoughts, your memories, your personality. And when cancer goes there, it feels like it’s not just attacking your body anymore—it’s attacking your self.

I can lose hair, I can lose weight, I can lose mobility. But what happens when I start losing me?

Doctors talk about treatment: radiation, steroids, surgery, targeted therapy. They talk about swelling and edema and seizures. But what they don’t talk about is the way you start second-guessing every little thing—Was that pause too long? Did I just forget my niece’s birthday, or is this a tumor pressing in the wrong spot? Will I still sound like myself tomorrow? Will I still recognize the people I love most?

The Dreams That Keep Me Going

What haunts me isn’t just the scans—it’s the fear of not being myself in the moments I’ve been waiting for.

I want to go for motorcycle rides, wind in my hair, holding on tight, feeling alive in a way only a bike on an open road can make you feel. I want to sit in the stadium with my best friend, screaming for the Buccaneers, arguing over calls, laughing so hard my cheeks hurt, soaking in every second of the rivalry and the friendship. I want to sit at the table with my family, eating, talking, just existing in the ordinary, messy, beautiful chaos of being together.

But what if I’m not fully me when those moments happen? What if I’m foggy, drugged, or slurring words? What if I can’t keep up with the laughter or forget what inning it is, or don’t remember the drive home? What if I’m physically there but already fading away inside?

That’s the part that petrifies me. Not just dying—but being here and not feeling like myself in the time I have left.

The Invisible Weight

Brain mets don’t just live in the scans; they live in the silence. In the moments when I’m laughing with friends but inside I’m terrified I’ll forget their names one day. In the way my husband watches me a little closer, memorizing me in case. In the way I try to play with Mojo but feel clumsy, off-balance, like my body’s not entirely mine anymore.

It’s not just about fighting for time. It’s about fighting to stay me in the time I have.

If You’re Here Too

If you’ve just been told you have brain mets, I want you to know you’re not crazy for being scared out of your mind. I am too. But here’s the thing: your worth isn’t erased because cancer got into your head. You’re still you—loved, needed, remembered.

Cancer can rearrange your scans, but it can’t take your soul. You are more than the shadows on a screen.

So we keep going. We cry, we rage, we rest, we fight. We take the rides, we go to the games, we eat dinner with the people who matter most. And we make sure people hear our story. Because if cancer is going to live in my brain rent-free, then my words are going to live out loud in the world—reminding someone else they aren’t alone.

Mojo’s POV 🐾

I see her staring off sometimes, lost in thoughts that make her eyes heavy. I nudge her hand with my nose until she looks at me. She’s still her—my mom, my safe place, my favorite human. Brain mets or not, I’ll be right here, curled up by her side, making sure she knows she’s never alone in this fight.

✨ If you connected with this, please subscribe, share it with someone who might need it, and keep walking through the mess with us. Because even when cancer tries to move upstairs, love still lives here too.