I get asked this a lot. Usually quietly. Usually underneath another question.
And I think people expect the answer to be something beautiful and inspirational. Like I wake up every morning full of courage and wisdom and some magical understanding of life.
But honestly, sometimes what keeps me here is really small.
Sometimes it’s:
“I want one more morning drinking coffee.”
“I want another movie night with Pete.”
“I want to hear my niece and nephews laughing.”
“I want to hold Mojo while he snores on my chest.”
“I want one more dinner with the people I love.”
“One more birthday.”
“One more normal day where cancer isn’t the loudest thing in the room.”
When you live with terminal cancer, people assume you become fearless. Like you suddenly stop being scared because you’ve had enough bad news to numb you out.
That’s not really how it works.
The truth is, you become painfully aware of how much life exists inside tiny moments. The little things start feeling huge because you understand they aren’t guaranteed.
And yeah, there are absolutely days where I think:
What’s the point of fighting this hard if I already know this doesn’t end well?
Because this is hard.
Hard in ways I can’t fully explain to someone who hasn’t lived it.
It’s exhausting trying to carry fear and grief while still answering texts and paying bills and pretending you’re okay enough for normal conversations. It’s exhausting grieving pieces of your future while everyone else keeps talking about theirs like time is unlimited.
Sometimes I get angry.
Sometimes I’m tired.
Sometimes I want to check out emotionally and stop trying so hard to hold everything together.
But then life sneaks in anyway.
That’s the part nobody talks about enough.
Life doesn’t only happen in huge milestones. It happens in tiny moments that somehow still reach you even when everything hurts.
It’s laughing so hard you forget you’re sick for a minute.
It’s hearing your family in the other room.
It’s your dog acting like you hung the moon.
It’s someone messaging you saying:
“Your words helped me stay.”
It’s realizing that even now, even sick, even struggling, you still matter here.
A huge part of why I keep going is because I’m not done loving people yet.
I’m not done with my family.
I’m not done making memories with my niece and nephews.
I’m not done sitting around a table with people I love.
I’m not done writing.
I’m not done telling the truth about what this life actually looks like.
I’m not done creating things that might help someone else feel less alone.
And honestly, writing the book reminded me of that too.
There were so many moments from the last few years I could’ve written about. So many stories that still live inside me. Finishing the book didn’t make me feel done. If anything, it made me realize how much more I still want to say while I’m here.
I think people picture terminal illness as constantly thinking about dying.
But most of us are actually trying really hard to keep participating in living.
That’s the difference.
I don’t wake up every day because I think I’m guaranteed decades more.
I wake up because this day still belongs to me.
And as long as there are moments that make me laugh, make me feel loved, make me feel connected, make me feel human, then no… I’m not done yet.
Not even close.
Life is still happening here.
Even in this mess.
And sometimes that’s enough.
Not perfect hope.
Not some giant inspirational answer.
Just enough love and connection to stay one more day.
And then another after that.
If you’ve been following Mojo & The Mess for a while, thank you for staying here with me through all of it. And if you haven’t yet, subscribe to the blog for new posts, updates, resources, and everything still to come. My book is finally out, but this story is far from over.
Leave a comment