There’s something strange about holding your own story in your hands.
Not just the polished parts. Not the highlight reel. The real story. The nights that almost broke you. The scans. The fear. The anger. The moments nobody saw because you were too busy surviving them to explain them properly at the time.
For the last three years, writing became the place where I put everything I didn’t know how to carry out loud.
Some blog posts were written from hospital beds. Some were written after appointments where I sat in the parking lot trying to process what doctors had just said. Some were written on days I wanted to disappear completely. Others came from moments I laughed so hard I forgot I was sick for five whole minutes.
This book became a collection of those moments.
And honestly, it healed me in ways I didn’t expect.
Not because writing magically fixes grief or trauma or fear. It doesn’t. But there’s something powerful about taking the worst moments of your life and refusing to let them stay trapped inside your head forever. Turning pain into something tangible changes it a little. It gives it somewhere to go.
While writing this memoir, I realized how much of the last few years I still hadn’t processed yet. There were memories I hadn’t revisited. Conversations I forgot mattered so much. Versions of myself I barely recognized anymore.
There were also so many stories I didn’t include.
Not because they weren’t important. Honestly, I could’ve written three times as much. Maybe ten times. There are entire chapters of my life that never made it into this first book. More hospital stories. More family moments. More fear. More humor. More behind-the-scenes reality of living with cancer while still trying to be a normal person at the same time.
But I knew this first book needed to breathe.
I didn’t want it to become so heavy or so endless that I never actually released it. I think a part of me needed to prove to myself that I could finish something this vulnerable and let people see it.
And now I have.
That’s the weird part.
After years of hiding pieces of myself behind “I’m fine” or humor or quick updates online, I finally put the truth somewhere permanent.
It’s terrifying.
It’s emotional.
It’s healing.
And honestly, it’s only the beginning.
Because now that I’ve done this once, I already know there will be more books.
Some will feel more like Mojo & The Mess. Messy, informative, honest, funny, resource-filled, community-centered. The kind of writing that makes people feel less alone while they’re trying to survive hard things.
Others will be memoirs too.
More volumes.
More stories.
More moments I wasn’t ready to tell yet.
Because surviving something changes you constantly. The story keeps evolving even after the hardest chapters.
I used to think writing was just a way to cope.
Now I think it’s also how I heal.
And maybe that’s the biggest thing this book gave me. Not closure, because I don’t think life works that way. But proof that even the worst years of my life still created something meaningful.
If you’ve read the blogs over the years, supported Mojo & The Mess, shared posts, subscribed, bought the book, or simply sat with me through the messy parts of all of this, thank you.
You helped me write this story more than you probably realize.
And I think we’re just getting started.
Thank you for being part of Mojo & The Mess.
If you’d like to support the blog, follow along for future books, new resources, and the next messy chapters of this journey, make sure you’re subscribed and following along on Facebook.
The memoir is available now on Amazon in eBook, paperback, and hardcover.
Stay messy.
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