This year didn’t teach me lessons.
It took things.
It took my sense of safety. It took the idea that effort guarantees outcome. It took the comfort of imagining a future without immediately calculating risk, treatment schedules, and side effects.
It took time — not all at once, but in pieces. A day here. A week there. Whole months swallowed by waiting rooms and “we’ll know more after the next scan.”
There is no clean ending to that kind of year. No tidy takeaway. No gratitude list long enough to cancel out what was lost.
And I’m tired of pretending there should be one.
People like to believe suffering creates strength. That pain sharpens you, refines you, makes you better. Sometimes it doesn’t. Sometimes it just hurts. Sometimes it leaves you quieter, more guarded, less willing to hope out loud.
This year taught me how much disappears without anyone noticing.
How your world can shrink to appointment reminders and pill organizers. How friendships thin when illness lasts longer than anyone expected. How being alive becomes a full-time job no one trained you for.
I learned how to grieve while still breathing. How to plan and unplan the same future over and over. How to hold both fear and responsibility at the same time — to keep showing up even when the answer is always “we don’t know yet.”
There were days I didn’t feel brave.
Days I didn’t feel inspiring.
Days survival felt like the bare minimum and even that took everything I had.
That’s where Mojo & the Mess came from.
Not hope. Not clarity. Not healing.
It came from refusal.
Refusal to pretend this was making me stronger.
Refusal to wrap devastation in optimism so other people could feel comfortable.
Refusal to disappear quietly.
This space exists because some pain doesn’t resolve — it accumulates. Because some lives don’t reset with a new year. Because some of us are still standing not because we’re resilient, but because stopping isn’t an option.
I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know which treatments will work or how long they’ll work for. I don’t know what parts of myself I’ll have to give up next.
What I do know is this:
I will not measure this year by what it taught me.
I will measure it by what I endured.
And by the fact that I’m still here to name what it cost.
And when the noise gets too loud — when the future presses too hard — there is a small grey dog who reminds me how narrow life actually is. Eat. Rest. Sit in the sun. Stay close. Breathe.
He doesn’t ask me to be strong.
He just asks me to stay.
From Mojo 🐾
She thinks in years.
I think in moments.
I know when she hurts before she says anything. I know when she’s pretending she’s fine. I know when the house feels heavy and when she needs quiet.
I don’t care what this year took.
I only care that she’s still here.
If you are too — if reading this feels like recognition instead of comfort — you can stay with us. You don’t have to explain anything.
I’ll make room.
Love,
Mojo
A Note From Us
If you’re here, it’s because you know this kind of year. If this space helps you feel less invisible, consider subscribing. Mojo & the Mess isn’t about surviving beautifully — it’s about surviving honestly.
No resolutions.
No silver linings.
Just truth.
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