What started as a treatable reproductive cancer turned into a full-body war. It didn’t stay put. Neither will I.
I started this fight thinking it was one battle.
A reproductive cancer.
Scary, yes — but treatable. That’s what they told me.
I was young. I was strong. I was ready to fight.
We caught it early, they said. We’ll be aggressive. There’s a plan.
And I believed them.
Because I wanted to believe that a plan meant protection.
That early meant lucky.
That treatable meant survivable.
But cancer doesn’t care about plans.
It doesn’t always stay where it starts.
Mine didn’t.
First it spread to my breast.
Then into my chest.
Then my bones.
Then my lymph nodes.
Now, where my ovaries should be, there’s nothing but damage.
A twisted, swollen mess of tissue, nerves, and pain —
a tumor larger than a bowling ball growing inside me.
That’s what metastasis looks like.
And no one prepared me for this part.
There’s a word doctors say like it’s just a clinical fact:
Metastatic.
They’ll tell you, gently:
“It’s spread.”
“We’re no longer aiming for remission.”
“We’ll manage it.”
But what they mean is:
This isn’t going away.
It’s no longer curable.
This is your life now.
And you are left to sit there, blinking, as the world shifts under your feet.
No bell. No finish line. No five-year survival plan.
Just a war you didn’t ask for — and no promise you’ll win.
You think cancer is terrifying the first time you hear it.
But the word “metastasized” hits differently.
It means the monster grew legs.
It means the fight got bigger than your body.
It means you’re not fighting for healing anymore — you’re fighting for time.
Time with your people.
Time in your home.
Time where you can still be a person, not just a patient.
It’s lonely, this place.
There’s no more talk of remission or recovery.
Only scans and symptoms.
Only pain management and second opinions.
Only “what now” and “how long?”
There’s still hope.
But it’s quieter now.
More fragile.
Less about miracles, and more about minutes.
Metastasis changes everything.
Not just your body — but your relationships, your energy, your calendar, your dreams.
You start to measure life in scans.
In stability.
In the days where the pain is tolerable and the nausea gives you a break.
But I’m still here.
And if you’re reading this… maybe you are too.
We’re surviving a body that betrays us.
We’re showing up for treatments that steal pieces of us just to buy us time.
We’re doing the hardest thing over and over again:
staying.
And that is a kind of strength no one sees —
but I promise you, it’s there.
Even on the days when you feel like you’re disappearing.
Mojo’s POV
Hi. I’m Mojo.
I don’t know what “metastatic” means.
But I know it was the word that made her go quiet.
The word that made her curl up under a blanket and not come out for hours.
So I did what I do best.
I sat on her feet.
I followed her from room to room.
I guarded the bathroom door when she was sick,
and the bedroom door when she finally slept.
I can’t fix her.
I know that.
But I can stay.
I don’t need her to be hopeful or strong.
I just need her to be here.
And I’ll be here too.
She’s not just a girl with cancer.
She’s my girl.
And I’m not leaving.
A Letter to the Girl With Metastatic Cancer
Hey you,
I know.
I know what it’s like to sit in a cold room and hear a doctor say it’s spread.
I know the way the air gets thick and your heart tries to outrun the truth.
I know the part of you that wants to scream, “This wasn’t the plan.”
It’s not fair.
It’s not your fault.
And it’s not the end — even if it feels like one.
Metastatic doesn’t mean broken.
It doesn’t mean you’ve failed.
It just means the fight is different now — messier, scarier, quieter.
But you’re still fighting.
Still standing.
Still here.
You’re not alone. I promise.
I’m walking this impossible path too.
And there are others like us — girls who didn’t get the “curable” version of the story.
Girls who still deserve joy. Girls who still laugh on infusion days. Girls who love fiercely, even when they’re exhausted.
Girls who matter, even when the world tries to make us feel like ticking clocks.
So if you’re tired… I get it.
If you’re angry… same.
And if you’re still here? I’m proud of you.
Keep waking up.
Keep taking the pills.
Keep asking the hard questions.
Keep carving out good moments — even if it’s just a show, a song, or a dog snoring at your feet.
And when you can’t be strong?
Just be.
That’s more than enough.
I’m rooting for you.
I’m hurting with you.
And I’m here — in the mess, in the fight, in the quiet in-between.
With everything I’ve got,
Izzy
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