No one tells you this part.
They warn you about chemo.
About hair loss.
About nausea, scans, ports, pain, fear, and the way time suddenly feels borrowed instead of promised.
But no one tells you that cancer comes with funerals you weren’t ready for.
That you will meet people who understand you in ways no healthy friend ever could—and then watch them disappear.
Quietly. Suddenly. Unfairly.
The cancer community becomes your lifeline without you realizing it. These are the people who don’t flinch when you say mets. The ones who don’t rush to fix you. The ones who don’t say everything happens for a reason or at least you’re strong. They already know there’s nothing strong about surviving something you didn’t ask for.
They know the language.
They know the fear.
They know the exhaustion that lives deeper than your bones.
And then one day, their name stops showing up.
Their profile goes quiet.
Their partner posts the update you were dreading.
Their family thanks everyone for the love.
And suddenly, cancer doesn’t just feel like something you’re fighting—it feels like something that’s circling you.
Every loss hits differently when you’re sick too. You don’t just grieve them. You grieve the version of yourself that needed them to survive this. You grieve the conversations you never finished. The messages you meant to reply to. The “when we’re done with treatment” plans that now live in the land of never.
And the hardest part?
You don’t get to stop fighting just because your heart is shattered.
You still have appointments.
You still have scans.
You still have to show up for your own body while carrying the weight of someone else not making it.
There’s a special kind of guilt that comes with outliving someone who was walking the same road as you. You ask yourself why. You wonder what they did differently. You bargain silently with the universe like it’s keeping score.
Sometimes it feels like survivor’s guilt with no survival guarantee.
And the world doesn’t understand why you’re quieter after losing someone they never met. They don’t understand how deeply connected you were to a stranger on the internet who became family through IV poles and shared terror.
But we understand each other.
We grieve in comments and DMs.
We light candles in our heads.
We carry their names with us into every scan room like a prayer and a warning at the same time.
Every friend we lose takes a piece of our innocence with them. Another reminder that this isn’t just hard—it’s deadly. It’s relentless. It doesn’t play fair.
And yet… we keep loving each other anyway.
Because loving them mattered.
Because being known mattered.
Because they mattered.
And maybe the bravest thing we do in the cancer community isn’t fighting—it’s continuing to connect, knowing loss is part of the deal.
A Note from Mojo 🐾
I don’t understand cancer the way Izzy does.
I just know when her heart hurts more than usual.
On those days, I stay closer. I don’t ask questions. I don’t need explanations. I just press my body against hers like I can hold the pieces together.
If you’re missing someone today, I hope you have something—or someone—who stays close too.
Even when there are no words.
In Honor of Tammy Lieberman 🤍
Today, any donations made through this blog will be used to purchase toys for children whose families are affected by cancer, in honor of Tammy Lieberman.
Tammy cared deeply about people—especially the ones who are often overlooked while adults are fighting to survive. This felt like a small way to turn grief into something gentle. Something hopeful. Something that brings a little light into a season that can feel impossibly heavy.
If you choose to donate today, please know that your support will go directly toward bringing comfort and joy to children growing up around hospital rooms, fear, and words they’re too young to understand.
💗 Donate via PayPal:
And if you’re unable to give, that’s okay too. Sharing this post, saying Tammy’s name, or holding her family in your thoughts matters just as much.
This is for her.
Always.
Subscriber Note 🤍
If this blog hit close to home, you’re not alone—even when it feels like you’re losing everyone who truly understands. This space exists for the grief people don’t talk about. The kind that lives quietly alongside treatment and survival.
If you’re new here, the Home page shares my story.
The Resources page is there if you’re struggling and need support.
And the Keep Mojo and the Mess Going page exists only because of this community—because none of us should have to do this alone.
If you’re missing someone today, say their name.
I promise—it matters.
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