Mojo and the Mess

There’s a version of me I barely recognize anymore.

She was quick. She was witty. She was confident. She could jump in the car and go anywhere, clean the house in an hour, laugh without wincing, hug without guarding one side of her body, sleep without negotiating with six pillows.

She moved through the world so effortlessly.

Chronic pain turns everything into effort.

Not just moving — existing.

People think pain is a physical thing. They imagine sharp aches, throbbing muscles, headaches, pressure. They don’t understand how pain rewires your personality. How it slowly chips away at who you used to be until you’re left wondering:

Who am I now?

Because when you’re in pain every single day, it changes everything:

It makes you quieter.

Not because you don’t have things to say — but because it takes energy to say them.

It makes you slower.

Not because you’re lazy — but because you’re calculating how to move without hurting more.

It makes you more guarded.

Not because you’re cold — but because you’re constantly bracing for the next bolt of pain you know is coming.

It makes you cancel plans.

Not because you don’t care — but because the idea of sitting upright for hours feels like climbing a mountain.

It makes you grieve.

Not just the big things — but the tiny losses.

The way you used to sleep on your side.

The way you used to carry groceries without thinking.

The way a shower didn’t wipe you out.

The way a hug didn’t hurt.

Pain turns the simplest parts of being human into decisions, negotiations, and consequences.

And after a while, it’s not just your body that feels different — it’s you.

You start to wonder if people think you’re dramatic. If they think you’re weak. If they think you’re not trying hard enough.

You start to miss the person you used to be.

You start to wonder what people remember about you — the old you or the one you’re fighting to be now.

But here’s the truth I’m learning, slowly and painfully:

Pain doesn’t erase who you are.

It reveals who you’ve always been.

The strength.

The resilience.

The softness.

The humor.

The way you still show up even when your body is screaming for you to lie down.

Pain hasn’t made me less of myself — it’s made me a version I never knew I’d have to become.

A version that deserves gentleness.

A version that deserves compassion.

A version that deserves to be loved just as fiercely as the girl I used to be.

And on the days when the pain is loud — louder than my thoughts, louder than my hope, louder than the version of me I miss so much — I try to remember this:

I’m still here.

I’m still fighting.

I’m still learning how to be a person inside a body that doesn’t always feel like mine.

Some days that truth feels powerful.

Other days it feels like defeat.

But it’s still mine.

And just when I start to spiral into wondering whether I’m becoming too much, or too small, or not enough of who I used to be, I feel a little weight press against me… and I look down.

🐾 Mojo POV

“Hey. It’s me. Mojo. Your emotional support loaf.”

I see you.

Not just the tired parts or the hurting parts — you.

You’re still my favorite person, even when you move slow, even when you cry, even when you’re too exhausted to do anything but breathe.

I don’t miss the old you, because I love the you who’s right here.

You don’t have to be your strongest self for me to stay.

I’m here for the soft self, the hurting self, the healing self.

All of them.

Always.

And somehow, hearing it from him — from the little heartbeat curled against mine — reminds me that maybe I am still worth loving… even in the messiest, most painful parts of this story.

Maybe being here is enough.

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