When you’re diagnosed with cancer, everyone is trying to help.
Your oncologist explains the treatment plan. The nurses walk you through the medications. Someone hands you a folder full of information about chemotherapy, radiation, infection risks, nausea, hair loss, fatigue, and all the numbers you’re supposed to call if something doesn’t feel right.
I remember leaving those appointments thinking, Okay… this is going to be awful, but at least I know what to expect.
Looking back, I couldn’t have been more wrong.
The truth is, the hardest parts of cancer weren’t in the folder.
They weren’t on the consent forms.
They weren’t listed under “common side effects.”
Some things can’t be explained until you’re living them.
No one warned me that one of the first things I’d lose wouldn’t be my hair.
It would be the future I had quietly built in my head.
Cancer shoved me into menopause while I was still in my twenties. It happened so fast that I never really had time to process it. One appointment you’re talking about treatment. The next you’re talking about hormone suppression, bone density, and all the things women decades older than you are usually worrying about.
People hear “menopause” and think about hot flashes.
They don’t think about the grief.
They don’t think about sitting in your car after the appointment, staring out the windshield because you suddenly realize your body has made a decision you never got the chance to make.
No one warned me that infertility would feel less like a medical side effect and more like a loss I couldn’t explain.
It’s not just about not being able to have children.
It’s about every “maybe someday” quietly disappearing.
It’s wondering what my daughter would’ve looked like. Whether she’d have my laugh or my stubbornness. It’s wondering if my son would’ve inherited my love for animals or my inability to sit still.
It’s walking past the baby aisle without meaning to look, then looking anyway.
It’s realizing there won’t be first kicks, nursery paint colors, tiny footprints on the kitchen floor, or someone calling me “Mom.”
People are quick to remind me that I’m alive, and I know that. I don’t take a single day for granted.
But being grateful to be here doesn’t erase the sadness of what isn’t.
Those two things have learned to live side by side.
Some days gratitude is louder.
Some days grief is.
No one warned me that pain would stop being something I recovered from and start becoming something I planned my life around.
Before cancer, pain was temporary. You pulled a muscle, got sick, healed, and moved on.
Now it follows me into almost everything I do.
Some mornings I know what hurts before my eyes are even open. Rolling over in bed can make my bones ache. Walking through a grocery store becomes something I have to think about instead of something I just do. Some days my joints feel like they’ve aged fifty years overnight. Other days it’s the headaches that make my stomach drop because headaches aren’t allowed to just be headaches anymore.
When cancer has spread, every symptom comes with a question.
Is this treatment?
Is this normal?
Is this progression?
Do I call my doctor, or am I overreacting?
Healthy people get the flu and assume they’ll feel better in a few days.
I get a new pain and wonder if my cancer has found somewhere else to live.
That changes you.
No one warned me how mentally exhausting it is to stop trusting your own body.
They warned me I’d be tired.
What they didn’t explain was cancer fatigue.
Fatigue isn’t wanting a nap.
It’s standing in the shower wondering if you have enough energy to wash your hair.
It’s sitting down after getting dressed because somehow putting on jeans felt like hard work.
It’s looking at a sink full of dishes and deciding they’ll still be there tomorrow because today you’ve already used everything you’ve got.
It’s realizing that taking a shower might be the biggest thing you accomplish all day.
People can’t see fatigue, which makes it one of the loneliest symptoms.
From the outside you look fine.
Inside, your body feels like someone unplugged it.
They warned me chemotherapy would make me sick.
They didn’t warn me that getting sick would become ordinary.
That there would be buckets lined with trash bags around my house because sometimes I wouldn’t make it to the bathroom.
That mouth sores would make eating hurt.
That food would taste like metal.
That there would be days I’d spend more time recovering from treatment than actually living my life.
No one tells you how quickly your standards change.
You stop caring about looking put together.
You stop caring about dignity.
You’re just trying to make it through another day.
No one warned me about the waiting.
The waiting might be one of the cruelest parts.
Waiting for blood work.
Waiting for scans.
Waiting for phone calls.
Waiting to hear whether the treatment is working or whether it’s time to start over with another plan.
You spend so much of your life waiting for someone else to tell you what’s happening inside your own body.
It’s a strange way to live.
No one warned me that I’d forget what healthy felt like.
I honestly don’t remember what it feels like to wake up without immediately checking in with myself.
How’s my head?
What’s hurting today?
Can I eat?
Do I have enough energy to leave the house?
Can I make plans, or is today another day where surviving is enough?
That conversation happens in my head before my feet even hit the floor.
It’s become so normal that I hardly notice I’m doing it anymore.
Cancer has a way of making impossible things feel ordinary.
Ports.
Scans.
MRIs.
Infusions.
Tumor markers.
Hospital bracelets.
Words I didn’t even know a few years ago are now part of everyday conversation.
You don’t become fearless.
You become familiar.
People tell me all the time that I’m strong.
The truth is, I don’t feel strong most days.
I feel like someone who has gotten really good at adapting.
Because what else are you supposed to do?
The doctors warned me that cancer could take my life.
What they couldn’t warn me about was how much of my life it would take while I’m still here.
It took certainty.
It took innocence.
It took the ability to make plans without checking a treatment calendar first.
It took the trust I used to have in my own body.
It took futures I spent years imagining.
But somehow, it hasn’t taken everything.
There are still mornings when my coffee tastes good.
There are still days when I laugh so hard I forget I’m sick for a little while.
There are still sunsets that make me stop what I’m doing.
There are still people who make me feel loved on days I don’t even recognize myself.
Cancer has changed almost every part of my life.
But it hasn’t changed the fact that this life…even this messy, painful, uncertain life…is still worth noticing.
Maybe that’s the one thing they couldn’t have warned me about.
That even after everything cancer takes, there are still moments that remind you why you’re here.
Thank you for taking the time to read this piece.
If you’re new here, welcome to Mojo & the Mess. This little corner of the internet has become the place where I tell the stories that don’t fit into a doctor’s appointment or a Facebook update. The messy, honest, unfiltered parts of living with stage IV cancer.
If this blog resonated with you, I’d love for you to subscribe so you never miss a post. I write new blogs regularly, sharing everything from treatment updates and the realities of metastatic cancer to faith, grief, marriage, mental health, and the small moments that keep me going.
If you’re looking for more, take a look around the site:
- Start Here if you’re new and want to learn how this journey began.
- The Blog is where you’ll find every story I’ve written, from the hardest days to the hopeful ones.
- Resources has information and organizations that have helped me and may help you or someone you love.
- Life’s a Mess is my memoir, written for anyone who’s ever wondered what life with cancer really feels like beyond the medical chart.
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Whether you’ve been here since my very first post or you just found this blog today, thank you.
Thank you for reading.
Thank you for sharing.
Thank you for reminding me that even in the middle of all this mess, none of us have to feel quite so alone.
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