People love to call me strong.
It’s one of the first things they say, almost automatically.
Like it’s the right answer.
Like it’s supposed to mean something comforting.
And I know they mean it in a good way.
I really do.
But sometimes… when I hear it, there’s this quiet part of me that wants to say—
You don’t see all of it.
Because strength doesn’t feel the way people think it does.
It doesn’t feel inspiring.
It doesn’t feel brave.
Most days, it just feels like surviving something you didn’t choose…
and not having another option but to keep going.
There are moments where I look completely fine.
I’m talking, I’m responding, I’m laughing at something small like nothing is wrong.
And at the exact same time, there’s this weight sitting in my chest—
this constant awareness that my life doesn’t feel like it used to.
That my body doesn’t feel like mine.
That everything is a little heavier than it should be.
And I carry that quietly.
Sometimes strength looks like answering people when I don’t have the words.
Sometimes it looks like going to appointments I’ve already cried about in private.
Like sitting in a room, nodding, listening… while trying to hold myself together.
Sometimes it looks like noticing something new in my body
and choosing not to say it out loud yet—
because once I do, it becomes real in a way I’m not ready for.
And sometimes strength is a lot less impressive than people think.
Sometimes it’s just… getting through the day.
Not breaking down in the middle of something normal.
Not letting my thoughts spiral too far.
Getting into bed at night and thinking, okay… I made it through today.
There are days I feel okay.
Not amazing. Not fixed.
But steady enough.
And then there are days where everything feels too loud in my head.
Where my body feels like too much to carry.
Where the reality of all of this hits me out of nowhere and I don’t know what to do with it.
And those versions of me don’t cancel each other out.
They exist at the same time.
I can be strong and still feel scared.
I can be strong and still feel exhausted in a way that sleep doesn’t fix.
I can be strong and still have moments where I think,
I don’t know how to keep doing this.
That’s the part people don’t always see.
Because I don’t always show it.
Not because I’m trying to be strong for anyone—
but because there isn’t always space for the full truth.
Because sometimes it feels easier to be the version of me
that doesn’t make people uncomfortable.
But the truth is—
Strength isn’t clean.
It isn’t inspiring all the time.
Sometimes it’s messy.
Sometimes it’s quiet.
Sometimes it looks like holding back tears in public
and letting them fall the second you’re alone.
I am strong.
But I’m also tired.
And overwhelmed.
And sometimes really, really scared.
And none of that takes away from the other.
So if you’ve ever looked at someone and thought,
“they’re handling this so well,”
Just know—
there’s probably more to it than what you’re seeing.
Because strength and falling apart
aren’t opposites.
Sometimes they’re happening in the exact same moment—
in the same breath.
💌
If you’re here, thank you for being here.
This space—Mojo & The Mess—is where I write the parts that don’t always get said out loud. The messy middle. The in-between moments. The real ones.
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