I am grateful.
And I am angry.
Both are true at the same time, even though people seem to think they cancel each other out.
I’m grateful for good doctors, for access to treatment, for people who show up, for the days my body cooperates just enough. I’m grateful for the quiet mornings, for my dog curled up beside me, for moments that still feel normal even when nothing else is.
I’m grateful that when I feel good, I get to spend time with my niece and nephews — to sit on the floor with them, listen to their stories, laugh at things that don’t matter, and feel like myself for a little while.
And I’m angry that I won’t have my own kids.
I’m grateful for my husband — for the way he takes care of me without making it feel like a burden, for how he steps in when my body can’t, for the way he shows up even when neither of us knows what comes next.
And I’m angry that we’re missing out on the life we planned.
I’m angry that our conversations sound different now.
That our future looks smaller on paper, even if the love is still big.
That milestones we talked about so casually are now things we quietly grieve instead.
Gratitude doesn’t erase grief.
It doesn’t undo fear.
It doesn’t magically make exhaustion noble.
Some days, gratitude feels like a requirement — like if I don’t express it loudly enough, I’ll be accused of being bitter or ungrateful or negative. As if acknowledging the hard parts somehow negates the good.
But that’s not how this works.
I can be thankful I’m here and still furious that I have to be here like this.
I can love the life I have and mourn the one I won’t get.
I can appreciate the care I receive and resent the cost it came with.
Anger doesn’t mean I’ve given up.
It means I’m paying attention.
It means I know this isn’t fair.
It means I remember who I was before my life became a series of medical decisions.
It means I’m human.
There’s this pressure to turn pain into inspiration — to wrap suffering in a lesson or a silver lining so it’s easier for others to digest. But sometimes, the truth is simpler and messier:
Some things just hurt.
Some things just suck.
And pretending otherwise doesn’t make them go away.
I don’t owe anyone optimism to earn compassion.
I don’t need to choose between hope and honesty.
I can sit in gratitude and anger at the same table and let them exist together — because they already do, whether anyone’s comfortable with it or not.
And if you’re here too — holding both — you’re not doing it wrong.
You’re just telling the truth.
💌 Before You Go
I’m about to begin a new treatment, and as we adjust to how that’s going to make me feel, things may look a little different here for a bit. I’ll be reposting some of the original blogs from the very beginning of Mojo & the Mess — the ones that started all of this.
But I promise I’m still writing.
And new content will be coming.
If this post sounded like something you’ve felt but never said out loud, you’re not alone here. You can subscribe to Mojo & the Mess to get new posts straight to your inbox — no toxic positivity, no fixing, just honest words for the days that don’t fit neatly anywhere.
Thanks for being here.
Really.
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