Mojo and the Mess

Lately, waking up feels like losing a fight I didn’t even want to be in.

There are mornings when I open my eyes and the first thing I feel isn’t gratitude or hope — it’s dread.

A heaviness that sits on my chest before I’ve even taken a breath.

A quiet whisper in my head that says, “Not again… I don’t know if I can do another day like this.”

Depression doesn’t always look like crying.

Sometimes it looks like staring at the ceiling because getting up feels impossible.

Sometimes it looks like nothing — a numb, empty space where joy used to live.

And lately, it feels like I’ve been disappearing inside myself.

There’s a version of me that used to laugh easily, move freely, dream endlessly.

She feels like a ghost now — someone I visit in memories, someone I can’t carry into this life no matter how hard I try.

And I miss her.

God, I miss her.

Depression when you’re sick is its own kind of grief.

It’s mourning the life you had, the body you trusted, the future you thought you were walking toward.

It’s looking at the people you love and wondering if they’d be happier if you weren’t so much to take care of.

It’s feeling like a burden even when they swear you’re not.

It’s crying quietly because you don’t want to scare anyone.

It’s pretending you’re okay because you’re tired of explaining why you’re not.

It’s isolating yourself because you don’t want to keep disappointing people who still believe you’re “strong.”

The truth is… I’m tired.

Not in the “I need a nap” way — in the way where your soul feels worn down.

In the way where hope feels fragile, like if you breathe wrong it might shatter.

I’m tired of hurting.

I’m tired of fighting.

I’m tired of acting like I’m not scared.

Some days I feel like I’m sinking quietly in a room full of people who don’t notice how hard I’m trying to stay afloat.

I smile, I nod, I say “I’m fine,” but inside I’m screaming for just one day that doesn’t feel like a mountain.

But even on the days when the darkness feels like it’s swallowing me, I remind myself of this:

I’m still here.

Bruised, exhausted, heartbroken — but here.

And if you’re reading this and you feel this way too… you’re here too.

And that matters.

Even if it doesn’t feel like enough, even if it feels like you’re drowning, even if you don’t know what tomorrow looks like — staying is brave.

Staying is strength.

And staying is enough.

🐾 Mojo’s POV

“Mom’s eyes look heavy today. I can tell because she doesn’t talk as much and she holds her breath a lot.

So I lay right against her chest so she remembers she’s not alone.

When she cries, I lick her cheeks.

When she gets quiet, I put my paw on her hand.

I don’t know how to fix what hurts inside her…

but I’m not leaving her side.”

✨ Subscriber Note

If you’ve made it to the end of this, thank you — truly.

This blog, these words, this journey… none of it is easy to share.

Your support helps me keep writing on the days when everything feels too heavy.

If you’d like to help keep Mojo and the Mess going, here are the links that mean the world:

💛 Amazon Wishlist:

https://www.amazon.com/registries/gl/guest-view/10QFFEWQ9YHD8?ref_=cm_sw_r_apin_ggr-subnav-share_418Q4R5HFCZVAMY4E7RC&language=en-US

💗 PayPal (Donate to Support My Care & This Blog):

https://www.paypal.com/donate/?business=NR39Y7BVRBKRU&no_recurring=0&item_name=Help+keep+Mojo+and+the+Mess+going+%25F0%259F%2592%2595+Every+donation+supports+my+story%252C+my+care%252C+and+this+blog.+Thank+you%2521+%25F0%259F%2590%25BE%250A.¤cy_code=USD

Thank you for staying.

Thank you for caring.

Thank you for letting me be honest.