Mojo and the Mess

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I didn’t sign up for a war.

I didn’t enlist. I didn’t train. I didn’t choose this language or this role. But the minute cancer entered my life, everyone started talking like I did.

Fight.
Battle.
Warrior.
Strong.
Brave.
Winning.
Losing.

It’s everywhere — in hospital hallways, social media captions, fundraisers, and well-meaning conversations. Cancer is framed like something you conquer if you just try hard enough. Like mindset is armor. Like effort alone decides outcomes.

And here’s the problem with that.

When Everything Is a “Battle,” Rest Feels Like Failure

Battle language doesn’t leave room for exhaustion.

If this is a fight, then resting sounds like giving up.
If I’m a warrior, then crying feels like weakness.
If I’m supposed to be “strong,” then admitting fear feels like I’m doing cancer wrong.

Some days I don’t want to fight.
Some days I want to sleep for hours and still feel tired.
Some days I want to scream because I didn’t ask for this body or this timeline.
Some days I want to exist quietly without being brave, inspiring, or motivational.

None of that means I’m losing.

It means I’m human — living inside a body that is doing its best while carrying something heavy and unfair.

What Happens When Someone “Loses” Cancer?

We say someone lost their battle when they die.

Think about that for a second.

It puts the blame on the person instead of the disease.
As if they didn’t fight hard enough.
As if strength could override biology.
As if positivity could cancel out metastasis.

Cancer isn’t fair.
It doesn’t respond to motivation.
It doesn’t care how hopeful you are or how badly you want to live.

People don’t die because they weren’t strong enough.
They die because cancer is brutal.

And calling death a “loss” quietly suggests that survival is something you earn — that if you just did cancer better, the outcome would be different. That idea hurts the people still here and dishonors the people who aren’t.

The Pressure to Perform Strength

Battle language turns illness into a performance.

You’re praised when you’re upbeat.
Applauded when you “handle it well.”
Celebrated when you look put together, smiling, composed.

But what about the days when I’m terrified?

What about the days when treatment hasn’t even started yet and I’m already bone-tired — tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix?

What about the days when I’m preparing like I’m responsible and capable — buying the things, making the plans — while internally I’m stomping my foot like a kid yelling I don’t want to?

Those days count too.
They don’t need a slogan.
They don’t need to be reframed into something inspirational.

They just need space to exist.

What If Cancer Wasn’t a War?

What if we talked about cancer like what it actually is?

A medical condition.
A life-altering diagnosis.
A long, uneven, deeply personal experience.

What if instead of asking How’s the fight going? we asked:

How are you really doing today?
What feels heavy right now?
Do you want company — or quiet?

What if survival wasn’t treated like a moral achievement?

You Don’t Owe Anyone Bravery

If battle language helps you — if calling yourself a fighter gives you power — that’s valid. Truly.

But it’s also valid if it doesn’t.

You don’t owe anyone strength.
You don’t owe anyone courage.
You don’t owe anyone a war story.

You are allowed to be scared.
You are allowed to be tired.
You are allowed to hate this.

You are not failing because you don’t feel like a hero.

From Me (and Mojo)

Some nights I lie awake thinking about what’s coming.
Some days I prepare like I’m being responsible and brave.
And some moments, I just sit with my dog and let myself be quiet.

Mojo doesn’t call me a warrior.
He doesn’t need me to fight.
He doesn’t need me to be strong.

He just stays.

Maybe that’s enough.

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Before You Go 🤍

If this resonated with you — if you’ve ever felt crushed by the language people use around illness — you’re not alone here.

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