Mojo and the Mess

This isn’t polished.
It’s not meant to be.

It’s just the truth.

Thank you for bringing benches into the bathroom so I don’t have to sit on the floor when I’m throwing up. You didn’t ask if I wanted one. You didn’t make it a conversation. You just saw a problem and fixed it. That matters more than you probably realize. It lets me keep a small piece of dignity on days when my body takes everything else.

Thank you for the ice packs. For always knowing when they’re warm. For swapping them out without being asked, without keeping score, without acting like it’s an inconvenience. It’s such a small thing, but when my head is pounding and I can’t think straight, it feels like relief showing up exactly on time.

Thank you for learning me in this version of my body.
For watching instead of questioning.
For noticing when I’m quiet in a way that means something is wrong.

You don’t ask me to explain how I feel when I don’t have the words. You don’t push me to be positive or strong or hopeful. You let me be exactly where I am, even when it’s uncomfortable or messy or hard to sit with.

I know this isn’t the life either of us pictured. I know this is heavy. I know there are parts of this you carry that I don’t even see.

And still—you show up.

Every day.
In the routines.
In the repetition.
In the parts that don’t feel meaningful until you’re living them.

You don’t make me feel like a burden.
You don’t act like I owe you strength in return.
You don’t disappear when things get worse.

You make me feel safe in a body that doesn’t feel like mine anymore.

I don’t always say thank you because most days I’m focused on surviving the next hour. But I see you. I see the care in the small choices you make. I see the patience. I see the love in the way you take care of me when no one else is watching.

I love you.
And I don’t know how I would do this without you.

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For Every Caretaker Reading This

If you’re taking care of someone who’s sick—especially in the quiet, unglamorous ways—I want you to know something.

The things you think are “just part of it” are everything.

The benches.
The ice packs.
The remembering.
The noticing.

The way you show up without needing recognition.

It counts.
It matters.
And even if the person you’re caring for doesn’t always have the energy to say it out loud—

They feel it.

🖤 Stay messy. Stay human.

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