I didn’t start this blog because I was brave.
I started it because I was drowning.
There comes a point in illness where you stop recognizing the girl in the mirror — not because of the scars or the weight changes or the medications, but because your spirit starts slipping somewhere you can’t reach anymore. I could feel myself disappearing one quiet inch at a time. And nobody noticed, because on the outside I was still cracking jokes, still smiling for photos, still trying so hard to be “okay.”
But inside, I was unraveling.
So I carved out a corner of the internet where I didn’t have to pretend. A place where I could spill the truth instead of swallowing it. A place to say, “I’m scared. I’m tired. I’m falling apart,” without someone telling me to stay positive or be strong.
And for a long time, I wrote like no one was watching.
Then the messages started coming.
Not just comments — messages from real people who were hurting in ways I thought only I understood. Women who said, “You wrote what I’ve been too afraid to say.” Mothers who whispered, “I thought I was alone until I found you.” Survivors and fighters and caregivers who sent paragraphs at 3AM because the world feels quieter at night and pain grows teeth in the dark.
Some messages shattered me.
Some stitched pieces of me back together.
Some I still reread when the fear gets too loud.
You told me about your diagnoses. Your losses. Your exhaustion. Your hope. Your lack of hope. Your migraines, your scans, your heartaches, your families, your loneliness, your grief that feels too big to hold. You trusted me with pieces of your story that you couldn’t say out loud to the people closest to you.
And somewhere in the middle of all of that — this stopped being just my blog.
Mojo and the Mess became a heartbeat made of all of us.
It became a place where the sick and tired and terrified and grieving could breathe without apologizing. A place where honesty wasn’t a burden, and vulnerability wasn’t embarrassing, and emotions didn’t need to be cleaned up before being shared.
Sometimes I worry that I don’t respond fast enough.
Sometimes I wish I had the strength to write each of you back with the depth you deserve.
But please know this: I read every single message. Every single word. Even on days when I can barely sit up. Even on days when my brain hurts too much to think clearly. Even on days when I feel like I have nothing left to give.
Your words reach me.
Your stories matter to me.
You matter to me.
On the days when my world feels unbearably heavy, your messages remind me that something beautiful can still grow out of a life that’s been cracked open. That even in the worst moments of this fight, there is connection. There is meaning. There is someone out there whispering, “I get it. I’m here too.”
I didn’t expect anyone to find this blog.
But you did, and you stayed.
And because of you, I stopped disappearing.
Thank you for reading.
Thank you for writing to me.
Thank you for letting me be honest.
Thank you for letting this place become more than a blog —
a lifeline, a safe space, a community stitched together by the messy parts.
If you’re new here…
Here’s how to find your way around:
Home Page: My story — where I came from, why this place exists.
Resources Page: Help, support, and links if you’re struggling.
Keep Mojo and the Mess Going: Ways to support my care, my writing, and this community.
Subscribers, You keep this space alive.
You keep me alive in the ways that matter.
If you’d like to help support Mojo and the Mess:
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