There are days in my life that never make it to Instagram.
Not because they’re unimportant, but because there’s no filter in the world that could make them look like something you’d double-tap.
There are the days when I wake up already exhausted — when opening my eyes feels like a chore, and the smallest movement makes my body feel a hundred years older than it should. Days when I sit on the edge of the bed for ten minutes just trying to convince myself that standing up won’t break me.
There are the days when pain is the first thing I feel and the last thing I think about. When the meds don’t touch it. When one symptom layers itself on another like a stack of bricks I’m expected to carry with a smile.
There are the days filled with appointments and scans and needles and waiting rooms where time stands still but somehow drains the life out of me just the same. Days where every beep, every fluorescent light, every cold stethoscope feels like another reminder that my body is not fully mine anymore — it’s a project, a problem, a chart.
There are the crying days. The days when grief sits heavy on my chest and tells me the truth I try not to think about too often: that life is fragile, unfair, unpredictable, and sometimes incredibly lonely. Days when the tears come out of nowhere and pour like they’ve been saving themselves up for weeks.
There are the angry days too — the ones where I hate my body, hate my reality, hate the way illness has rearranged my life like it had the right to. Days when people say “you’re so strong” and all I want to scream is, I never asked to be.
And then there are the invisible days.
The nothing-days.
The ones where I do absolutely everything I can just to exist.
No productivity. No breakthroughs. No cute outfits. No inspirational quotes. Just me, in bed or on the couch, surviving.
These days don’t get posted, not because I’m ashamed of them, but because they’re too real. Too raw. Too far from the curated version of life the world prefers to pretend is normal.
But these are the days that make up the bulk of my story.
These are the days that teach me patience and resilience.
These are the days that remind me I’m still here, even when “here” is hard.
And maybe I don’t post them, but they matter.
They’re part of the truth.
Part of the fight.
Part of the mess that makes Mojo & the Mess what it is.
Even on the days that don’t make it to Instagram — I’m still living, still trying, still showing up in the only ways I can. And honestly? That counts. A lot more than anyone realizes.
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Thank you for being part of the mess with me. You make this less lonely.
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