Mojo and the Mess

Dear “Healthcare,”

You failed me.

Not because you didn’t have the technology.

Not because the cure didn’t exist.

But because when I needed you to see me, you didn’t.

You saw my age before my pain.

You saw my fertility before my survival.

You saw a body that could make babies instead of a woman trying to stay alive.

And you made decisions for me — not with me.

You told me, “You’re too young.”

You told me, “It’s probably hormonal.”

You told me, “Let’s wait and see.”

So I waited.

And by the time you decided to look closer, it was too late.

You pride yourself on progress, on innovation, on “early detection.”

But early detection only matters if you believe women when they say something is wrong.

If you don’t write off pain as stress, or fatigue as anxiety, or bleeding as “normal for your age.”

The truth is: I’m not dying because medicine failed.

I’m dying because the system built around it doesn’t value women equally.

Especially women who aren’t convenient — the ones who question, who research, who don’t fit neatly inside your diagnostic boxes.

You’ve built an empire around profit and protocol, not people.

You turned patients into paperwork and empathy into efficiency metrics.

You built a machine that rewards speed over compassion and silence over advocacy.

And women fall through the cracks every single day.

Because in your world, a woman’s worth is still measured by what her body can do for others — not what her life means on its own.

Because somewhere deep in your training manuals and policy books, it says: protect the womb, not the woman.

I am the consequence of that belief.

If you’d valued my life over my potential to create another, maybe I wouldn’t be writing this letter.

If you’d listened when I said something didn’t feel right, maybe I’d be writing about anything else.

If you’d treated my symptoms with urgency instead of assumptions, maybe I’d have more time.

But I don’t.

And now I live inside the aftermath of a healthcare system that broke me — emotionally, physically, and financially — and still expects gratitude.

You say things like “miracle of modern medicine,”

but the real miracle is that patients keep showing up after how you’ve treated us.

We keep hoping you’ll finally live up to your name: care.

Because I’ve met the people who remind me what that word means.

The nurse who tucked a blanket under my feet.

The tech who called me “sweetheart” instead of “the breast cancer in Room 3.”

The doctor who stayed late to explain things no one else took time for.

They are the reason I still believe change is possible.

So this isn’t just anger — it’s a challenge.

To every hospital, every insurer, every research board, and every policymaker:

Stop pretending the system is working.

It’s not.

Not when women are dying because their pain was dismissed.

Not when lives are weighed against billing codes.

Not when compassion is optional.

You failed me.

You failed millions of us.

And the worst part?

We warned you.

We begged you.

We came to you first.

Sincerely,

A woman whose life was worth saving — even if I couldn’t give birth to one.

✉️ Subscriber Note

If this piece hit you in the gut — you’re not alone.

Too many of us have been dismissed, delayed, or disregarded by a system that still treats women like symptoms instead of souls.

If you believe stories like this need to be heard, subscribe to Mojo and the Mess.

It’s free, it’s raw, and it’s a space for the ones living through the parts no one warns you about.

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