Mojo and the Mess

A year ago today, I hit publish on the very first Mojo & The Mess blog.

I remember sitting there wondering if anyone would even read it. I wasn’t trying to start a business or build a following. I wasn’t thinking about page views or subscribers. I just needed somewhere to pour out everything I was carrying because it was becoming too much to hold on my own.

At the time, I felt incredibly alone.

Cancer has a way of making your world feel really small. Friends don’t always know what to say. Family worries so much that you end up protecting them from your own feelings. Social media becomes a highlight reel that you don’t fit into anymore.

I wanted one place where I didn’t have to pretend I was okay.

So I started writing.

I never imagined that one year later those words would be read in 128 countries.

I never imagined the blog would be viewed millions of times.

I never imagined that an average of 88,000 people would read, subscribe to, or follow along every single week.

Truthfully, those numbers don’t even feel real to me.

Because when I’m writing, it doesn’t feel like I’m talking to thousands of people. It feels like I’m talking to the person lying awake at two in the morning after hearing the word “cancer.” The woman who just found out she can’t have children because of treatment. The husband sitting beside an infusion chair wishing he could trade places. The caregiver who’s exhausted but keeps showing up anyway.

That’s who I’ve always written for.

This year changed my life in ways I never expected.

I learned my cancer had spread to my brain and spine.

I went through more treatments, more scans, more appointments, more radiation, more chemo, more medications, and more uncertainty than I can count. There were weeks where my entire calendar revolved around hospitals. Days where getting dressed felt like an accomplishment. Nights where I couldn’t sleep because my body just wouldn’t let me.

There were moments I genuinely wondered how much more one person could take.

But life didn’t stop.

Somehow, in the middle of all of that, I wrote a memoir.

I held my first book signing.

I launched merch.

Together, we raised money for families who were walking through the unimaginable. We built resources for people who needed them. We created a community where people could say the things they were scared to say anywhere else.

That’s what I’m proudest of.

Not the numbers.

Not the milestones.

The people.

The messages from someone who says, “I thought I was the only one.”

The caregiver who says, “You finally put into words what I’ve been feeling.”

The woman who tells me she found my blog the night before her first chemo treatment and didn’t feel quite as afraid afterward.

Those are the moments that stay with me.

People thank me all the time for being honest.

The truth is, you’ve done just as much for me.

You’ve given me purpose on days when I felt completely lost.

You’ve reminded me that my life is still making a difference, even when cancer tries to convince me otherwise.

You’ve celebrated with me when there was something worth celebrating and sat beside me through the posts I wish I’d never had to write.

You showed up after the good scans.

You showed up after the bad ones too.

You bought my book.

You wore the merch.

You donated to families who needed help.

You shared blogs with strangers because you thought maybe they’d need them.

You made this into so much more than a website.

When I came up with the name Mojo & The Mess, I thought the “mess” was cancer.

I was wrong.

The mess is life.

It’s grief and joy existing in the same day.

It’s laughing in an infusion room and crying in the parking lot afterward.

It’s celebrating a book launch while wondering what the next scan will show.

It’s finding purpose in places you never wanted to be.

That’s what this community has always understood.

So today isn’t really about celebrating a website.

It’s about celebrating every single person who’s made this little corner of the internet feel like home.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you.

Thank you for reading.

Thank you for trusting me with your stories.

Thank you for letting me tell mine.

I don’t know what year two will look like. If cancer has taught me anything, it’s that tomorrow isn’t promised.

But I do know this.

As long as I’m here, I’ll keep writing.

I’ll keep telling the truth.

And I’ll keep reminding anyone who stumbles across Mojo & The Mess that whatever they’re carrying, they don’t have to carry it alone.

Happy one year, friends.

We built something really special together.