Mojo and the Mess

Lately, it feels like cancer is no longer a distant word you hear on the news or in someone else’s story.

It’s a text.

A DM.

A shaky phone call that starts with, “I don’t know how to say this…”

It’s someone my age.

Again.

Another face from high school.

Another person I watched fall in love, get married, build a life.

Another future that just cracked down the middle.

I used to believe we were too young for this.

That illness belonged to a different chapter of life.

But now it feels like every week someone else is being pulled into this world—the one you never plan for and can’t leave once you’re in.

It’s like the room keeps getting fuller, and none of us know where the door is.

The Moment Everything Changes

There’s a second in every diagnosis where time stops.

Where the world feels loud and far away, and you’re standing inside your own body wondering how it just became a stranger.

Your life splits into two parts:

Before.

And after.

Before—when your biggest worries felt manageable.

After—when every ache, every scan, every quiet moment holds weight.

I see it in their eyes when they tell me.

The fear.

The disbelief.

The way they’re trying to act normal while everything inside them is screaming.

And each time, I want to reach through the phone and hold their face and say:

I know. I know what this feels like.

To You, Who Just Heard the Words

If you just found out—

I am so, so sorry.

I’m sorry your body betrayed you.

I’m sorry your future suddenly feels like a question mark.

I’m sorry that nothing feels safe the way it used to.

You don’t have to be strong right now.

You don’t have to find meaning in this.

You don’t have to be anyone’s inspiration.

You’re allowed to fall apart.

You’re allowed to grieve the life you were planning.

You’re allowed to feel angry, numb, terrified, or all three at once.

This isn’t a lesson.

This isn’t a blessing in disguise.

This is a storm—and you are standing in the middle of it.

And still, you are here.

The Truths No One Prepares You For

You will learn a new language—one you never wanted to know.

Scans. Ports. Infusions. Stages. Remission. Recurrence.

You will lose parts of yourself you didn’t know were tied to your identity.

Your energy.

Your privacy.

Your sense of control.

Some people will lean in.

Others will quietly disappear.

Both will hurt in ways you don’t expect.

There will be days when you feel brave.

And days when getting out of bed is your only victory.

Both are real. Both are enough.

You will question everything—your body, your plans, your faith, your strength.

That doesn’t mean you’re failing.

It means you’re human.

Watching It Spread Through Our Generation

What terrifies me most is how common this is becoming.

We’re too young to be learning how to survive like this.

Too young to be planning around treatment instead of vacations.

Too young to be talking about mortality when we were supposed to be building forever.

And yet, here we are.

Standing in waiting rooms together.

Learning how fragile everything is.

It makes the world feel smaller.

Scarier.

But also more precious.

Because when you’ve stared at loss long enough, you begin to see how sacred staying really is.

The Quiet Courage of Staying

Some days, staying doesn’t look like hope.

It looks like tears on the bathroom floor.

It looks like choosing another treatment.

It looks like breathing through the fear and saying, okay, one more day.

And that is bravery too.

Not the loud kind.

The quiet kind.

The kind that shows up when no one is watching.

🐾 Mojo

Mojo doesn’t know what cancer is.

He doesn’t care about timelines or statistics.

He only knows when I’m not okay.

He presses closer.

He rests his head on me like he’s anchoring me here.

Like he’s saying, “You’re still home. You’re still you.”

And on the days when everything feels like it’s slipping away—

that is enough to keep me here.

For You

If this is happening to you,

or to someone you love—

Come sit with us.

You don’t have to carry this alone.

You’re not weak for hurting.

You’re not dramatic for being scared.

You are not a burden for needing support.

You are still here.

And that matters more than you know.

📬 Stay Here a While

If you made it this far, I want you to know—you’re not just a reader.

You’re part of this space now.

Mojo & The Mess was built for people who are tired of pretending they’re okay.

For those living in the in-between.

For anyone who needs somewhere to land when the world feels too heavy.

If you’d like to keep walking with us, you can:

💌 Subscribe

So you don’t miss the next note from the waiting room.

No spam. Just honest words, sent when I have the strength to write them.

🤍 Keep Mojo & The Mess Going

This page is for anyone who wants to help support this space from covering website costs to helping me keep sharing resources and stories for others who need them.

🧠 Resources

Because sometimes words aren’t enough.

This page holds support links, mental health tools, and real help for patients, caregivers, and anyone struggling.

Whether you stay for one post or a hundred,

you’re welcome here.

We didn’t choose this life—

but we can choose not to face it alone.