Mojo and the Mess

There’s a special category of comments people save for the sick.

They aren’t meant to be cruel.

They aren’t said with malice.

But intention doesn’t soften impact — especially when you’re already exhausted just trying to exist.

People don’t know what to do with illness.

Silence makes them uncomfortable, so they fill it with words.

And those words often land heavier than the person saying them will ever know.

“At least…”

“At least it was caught.”

“At least you’re young.”

“At least you don’t look sick.”

“At least” is dismissal dressed up as comfort.

It turns pain into something that needs to be compared or minimized to be acceptable.

“Everything happens for a reason.”

If there is a reason, I don’t need to know it right now.

And if the reason requires this much loss, then it isn’t comforting — it’s cruel.

“You’re so strong.”

I didn’t apply for strength.

I didn’t earn a badge.

I am strong because the alternative is disappearing — and that’s not a compliment. It’s survival.

“Stay positive.”

Positivity is not a treatment plan.

Hope does not cancel fear.

And being honest about how bad this is does not mean I’ve given up.

“Someone has it worse.”

That doesn’t make this hurt less.

Pain is not a competition, and suffering doesn’t become noble when ranked.

“I don’t know how you do it.”

Neither do I.

I just wake up and keep going because stopping isn’t an option I’ve been given.

“God only gives you what you can handle.”

Then God has a deeply concerning amount of faith in me — and a reckless approach to testing it.

“Let me know if you need anything.”

A kind offer that often disappears the second something is actually needed.

If you want to help, say how — and mean it.

The Comments About Hair (That Cut Deeper Than Scissors)

Cancer takes your hair first because it knows exactly where to hit.

Hair isn’t just hair — it’s femininity, privacy, choice, identity.

And somehow, people feel entitled to comment on it like it’s a bad haircut you chose on a whim.

“You should try a different haircut.”

This isn’t a style phase.

This isn’t a bold new look.

This is a medical side effect — not an invitation for feedback.

“I liked your hair better long.”

So did I.

I liked it better when it grew because I wanted it to, not because my body allowed it.

“Short hair actually suits you.”

It doesn’t need to.

I didn’t cut it to suit anyone — I lost it to survive.

“At least it’ll grow back.”

Eventually.

Maybe.

But right now I’m mourning something I didn’t consent to losing, and the future doesn’t erase the grief of the present.

“Why don’t you just wear a wig?”

Because sometimes I don’t want to pretend.

Because sometimes it itches.

Because sometimes I’m tired of performing normalcy to make other people comfortable.

“You used to be so pretty with long hair.”

This one stays with you.

Because what it really says is: you’re less pretty now.

No one ever says this to a man.

No one tells him he was “handsomer before cancer.”

Women’s bodies become public property the moment they change.

“You’re brave for going out like that.”

Brave would’ve been a choice.

This is just my face today.

“I could never shave my head.”

Neither could I.

Until I didn’t get a choice.

What People Don’t Realize

Every comment lingers.

Every “compliment” with a comparison is a reminder of loss.

Every suggestion assumes we’re unaware — as if mirrors don’t exist, as if grief needs coaching.

If someone is sick, the correct response is not commentary.

It’s respect.

You don’t need perfect words.

You don’t need wisdom.

You don’t need optimism.

Try:

“I’m really sorry you’re going through this.” “I’m here — even if you don’t know what you need.” “You don’t have to be strong with me.”

Sometimes the most helpful thing you can say is nothing — and the most helpful thing you can do is stay.

A Note From Me

This space exists because people keep showing up here looking for words they don’t have yet.

If you’re new, start on the Home page to learn my story.

If you’re struggling or need help navigating illness, the Resources page is there for you.

And if you’re able and want to help keep this blog going, there’s a Keep Mojo & the Mess Going page as well.

Thank you for listening — even when it’s uncomfortable.

Thank you for staying.

🐾