Mojo and the Mess

There’s a certain silence in hospital waiting rooms that never leaves you. It’s not just quiet — it’s heavy. It’s filled with the sound of someone pretending to scroll their phone to avoid crying. It’s the soft shuffle of slippers, the nervous cough of someone counting minutes, and the quiet hum of fluorescent lights that never turn off.

If you’ve ever sat in that silence, this one’s for you.

Because you’re not just waiting for a doctor.

You’re waiting for a name to put to the pain.

You’re waiting for a number that might decide your future.

You’re waiting for news that could make or break your next chapter.

You’re waiting — and trying to breathe through it.

The Ones Who Don’t Get to Ring the Bell

There’s a strange kind of grief that comes with living in between. When you’re not “done,” not “cured,” not “over it.” People clap for the finish line, but they don’t always know what to do with the ones still mid-race.

You learn to smile when someone says “You got this,” even though you’ve got a calendar full of scans, pills, and what-ifs. You learn to celebrate the small wins — stable scans, a day without nausea, a little bit of energy that feels borrowed.

You learn that survival doesn’t always look like victory. Sometimes it just looks like showing up again tomorrow.

The Ones Who Feel Forgotten

To the ones who get messages less often now — because everyone assumes you’re “fine.”

To the ones who still flinch when your phone rings from an unknown number.

To the ones who’ve learned how to smile in waiting rooms that smell like antiseptic and fear.

To the ones who’ve had to be brave so long, bravery feels like a burden —

I see you.

You are not forgotten.

You are not background noise in someone else’s story.

You are the heartbeat of this one — the in-between that no one talks about.

The Ones Still Fighting Quietly

You’re the ones who plan birthdays between chemo cycles.

Who bring snacks to appointments because you’ve learned you’ll be there for hours.

Who memorize the ceiling tiles while pretending not to count the drips.

Who go home and walk your dog, answer texts, and act like everything’s normal.

You are extraordinary in your ordinariness.

You are the proof that life doesn’t stop — even when it hurts.

If You’re Reading This from the Waiting Room

I hope you know that this space doesn’t last forever — even if it feels like it does.

You will walk out those doors again.

Maybe not with the answers you wanted, but with the strength you didn’t know you had.

And even if the world forgets how heavy that silence can be, I won’t.

Because I’m still here too — sitting with you, scrolling my phone, trying to breathe through it.

You’re not alone in this waiting room.

🐾 Mojo’s POV

Mom says the waiting room smells like nerves. I say it smells like opportunity — to find the best lap, the kindest nurse, the quietest corner to curl up in. She says she hates the waiting. I say she’s stronger than the clock.

So if you’re still waiting, I’ll wait with you.

I’ll wag when you walk out.

And I’ll remind you that even in the stillness — you’re still moving forward.

💌 If this found you in your own waiting room…

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Because sometimes the bravest thing we do is just keep waiting — together.