Strong on the Outside, Screaming on the Inside

Everyone keeps telling me how strong I am.

I’m doing all the things that look like strength.
I’m scheduling appointments.
I’m refilling prescriptions.
I’m ordering the things I know I’ll need once chemo starts again — the practical things, the boring things, the survival things.

From the outside, it probably looks like acceptance. Like bravery. Like I’ve done this before and I know how to handle it.

But inside me?

Inside me is a small, furious child stomping her foot, fists clenched, screaming I don’t want to.

I don’t want to be brave again.
I don’t want to be the one who “handles it so well.”
I don’t want to know what works for nausea or which blankets feel safest or how long it takes for your eyebrows to disappear.

I don’t want chemo to be “coming quickly.”
I don’t want to prepare like this is normal.

The Performance of Strength

There’s a version of me the world sees.

She’s organized.
She’s realistic.
She’s making lists and plans and contingency plans.
She’s thanking people for their concern and answering questions calmly.

That version of me is real — but she’s not the whole story.

Because the other version of me is panicking quietly.
She’s bargaining.
She’s crying in places no one sees.
She’s so tired of being the example, the inspiration, the one who proves how resilient humans can be.

Sometimes strength is just fear with good posture.

Preparing While Protesting

I’m buying the things I know I’ll need.
Comfort items.
Practical items.
The same kinds of things you buy when you know your body is about to become a battleground again.

And every click feels like a betrayal of the part of me that wants to throw herself on the floor and refuse.

It’s strange — how you can be both responsible and terrified at the same time.
How you can do what needs to be done while internally screaming please don’t make me do this again.

This is what survival looks like sometimes:
Preparation with a knot in your throat.
Bravery with tears behind it.
Forward motion fueled by sheer refusal to collapse — even when collapse feels deserved.

You’re Allowed to Feel Both

If you’re reading this and you recognize yourself here, I want you to know something:

You don’t have to pick a side.

You can be the person who shows up and the person who doesn’t want to.
You can be strong and scared.
You can be doing everything right and still be furious that this is your life.

Strength doesn’t cancel out grief.
Preparation doesn’t mean acceptance.
Bravery doesn’t mean you aren’t breaking.

It just means you’re still here.

From Mojo 🐾

I know when Izzy is pretending everything is okay.

She moves faster.
She makes lists.
She talks in that calm voice she uses when she’s scared.

I sit close when she does that.

Because even when humans are being very brave on the outside, they still need someone to remind them they’re allowed to be small and scared sometimes.

I don’t need her to be strong for me.
I just need her to come back and sit down when it gets too loud inside.

I’ll handle the rest.