Mojo and the Mess

I didn’t think this would be my life at 27.

Not in a big, obvious way. Just in the small, everyday details that slowly add up until you realize nothing about your life looks the way you thought it would.

I thought mornings would start with coffee. Maybe checking my phone, easing into the day, thinking about what I had planned.

Instead, some mornings start with a shot in my stomach before I’ve even had a sip of anything. It’s routine now. Something I do without thinking too hard about it, because if I do, it feels heavier than I can carry first thing in the morning.

My day isn’t broken up by meals or plans. It’s broken up by meds. Every few hours, another reminder. Another pill. Another timer going off. It doesn’t matter if I’m in the middle of something or finally feeling a little bit like myself. Everything pauses.

There are seven days out of every month that I already know I’m going to lose. Not fully, not forever, but enough. Enough that I plan around them. Enough that I know I’ll be sick, stuck in bed or on the bathroom floor, waiting for it to pass while trying not to think too far ahead.

I didn’t think I’d have to factor that into my life at 27.

There are migraines that come out of nowhere and take over everything. Nights where I’m exhausted but can’t sleep, just laying there while my body feels heavy and my mind won’t shut off. Days where the fatigue isn’t just being tired, it’s a full body kind of exhaustion that makes even simple things feel like too much.

I didn’t think I’d have to choose where I go based on the sun, the heat, or how many people might be there. I didn’t think I’d have to weigh something as simple as leaving the house against the risk of getting sick, or how my body might react once I’m out.

There are so many things I say no to now. Things I want to say yes to. Things I used to say yes to without thinking twice.

And that’s the part people don’t always see.

They see the diagnosis. The treatments. The words that sound heavy enough on their own. But they don’t always see how it weaves into everything else. How it changes the rhythm of your life in ways that are constant and quiet and hard to explain unless you’re living it.

My husband has become more than just my partner. He’s my caretaker in ways neither of us expected. The one who helps when I can’t do things on my own. The one who sees the full version of this, not just the parts I show to everyone else.

There’s a closeness in that, but also a kind of grief. Because this isn’t how we pictured things either.

I still have moments where I feel like myself. Where I laugh, where I forget for a second, where life feels almost normal. But even in those moments, there’s an awareness sitting just under the surface. A quiet knowing that this is part of my life now.

I didn’t think I would understand any of this at 27. I didn’t think I would have to.

And I know I’m not the only one. Being in this age group, living with something like this, you start to realize how many of us are figuring it out in real time. Trying to build a life around something that constantly shifts.

I don’t have a clean way to wrap this up.

This is just my life right now.

Not what I planned. Not what I expected.

But it’s mine. And I’m still here, learning how to live it as it is.

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Mojo & The Mess exists for people living in the middle of things like this. The messy, in-between parts that don’t get talked about enough.

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