Mojo and the Mess

If cancer could hear me, I’d have a few things to say.

I’d start with a scream.

The kind that’s been trapped in my throat for years — behind polite smiles, hospital bracelets, and the words “I’m fine.”

Because I’m not fine. I’ve just gotten really good at pretending.

You came into my life like a thief in the night, and you didn’t just steal — you rearranged everything.

You took birthdays, anniversaries, and moments that should’ve been mine.

You made me learn how to breathe through pain I didn’t know existed.

You made my husband hold my hand in waiting rooms where hope and fear sit side by side.

You made my mother cry quietly in parking lots so I wouldn’t hear.

You turned my body into a battlefield — one I didn’t enlist in.

You took parts of me I never wanted to give up.

You’ve made me live inside a body I barely recognize and call it “survival.”

You’ve made me feel guilty for being tired, for missing out, for not bouncing back fast enough.

You’ve made me the reason people whisper, the example they use when they want to sound grateful for their own good fortune.

But listen closely, because this part’s for you —

You didn’t win.

You made me softer, but not weaker.

You broke my heart, but not my spirit.

You changed my body, but you didn’t touch my soul.

You took my future, but I made something beautiful out of the time you left me.

You don’t get to claim my laughter on nights I forget about you.

You don’t get to own the way Mojo curls up beside me when I’m too sick to move.

You don’t get credit for the sunsets I still stop to watch, the pizza nights, the hugs that last too long, or the way Pete still calls me “Amore” when everything hurts.

You can have the hospitals, the bills, the scars.

But you will never have my joy.

You wanted me quiet, but I became louder.

You wanted me invisible, but I made people see.

You wanted me afraid, but I learned to fight — and not just for myself, but for every person still sitting in a cold waiting room, clutching results that will change everything.

If cancer could hear me, I’d tell it that even on my worst days — the ones where the pain feels endless, the ones where the fatigue feels like drowning — I still find reasons to stay.

Because staying isn’t weakness. It’s rebellion.

You made me understand what love really looks like.

It’s a husband who learns the language of side effects and blood counts.

It’s friends who show up when they don’t know what to say.

It’s strangers who send messages that say “you helped me feel less alone.”

It’s a small dog who somehow knows which side of the bed hurts more.

You don’t get to claim any of that.

That’s mine.

That’s the light you couldn’t kill.

If cancer could hear me, I’d tell it that one day my story will outlive it.

That people will wear my words on shirts, read them on bad nights, and find hope in the mess I left behind.

That Mojo will still walk, and Pete will still laugh, and my name will still mean something — not because of what you did, but because of how hard I loved through it.

You’ll be just a word.

I’ll be the reason someone keeps going.

So if you’re listening, cancer —

You didn’t destroy me.

You revealed me.

And I’ll make sure the world never forgets what came out of the fire you started.

🐾 Mojo’s POV

If cancer could hear me, I’d growl.

Not the kind of growl that means “I’m scared,” but the one that means you picked the wrong girl.

I’ve watched her fight you in ways you’ll never understand —

on mornings when she could barely lift her head but still whispered my name,

on nights she held her husband’s hand and told him it would be okay even when she wasn’t sure it would.

I’ve seen her bleed, cry, and shake — and still laugh when I did something stupid just to make her smile.

I’ve laid next to her while she slept through the storm you caused, keeping watch like I could bark you away.

And maybe, in some small way, I did.

Because you can’t touch what she’s built here.

The love. The words. The people who found her because of the mess you made.

You might live in her charts, but she lives in hearts — and that’s forever.

So hear me loud and clear, cancer:

You can haunt the scans, but you’ll never win the story.

You don’t get the last word.

She does.

We do.

— Mojo 🐾

#MojoAndTheMess #IfCancerCouldHearMe #StageFourNeedsMore #StillHere #MojoSaidWhatHeSaid

Subscriber note:

If you’ve ever had to fight something you didn’t ask for, know this: your story isn’t over just because it got messy.

You’re still here. Still fighting. Still writing your own ending — just like me.