Mojo and the Mess

I don’t know if this blog will make people uncomfortable.

Maybe it should.

I’ve started it a dozen times, and every version sounded like I was trying to have the right answer. I don’t have one. If I did, I probably wouldn’t be writing this.

I think I’m writing it because I’m scared to admit it out loud.

People keep telling me not to lose my faith.

The thing is… I don’t think I’ve lost God.

I think I’ve lost the version of faith I used to have.

Before cancer, faith was simple. Not perfect, but simple. If something didn’t make sense, I figured one day it would. If life hurt, I believed there was a reason. If I prayed hard enough, I believed God heard me.

Now I don’t know what I believe about any of that.

I still pray.

Every scan.

Every treatment.

Every time I feel a new pain that shouldn’t be there.

Every time I sit in a waiting room trying not to imagine the conversation that’s about to happen.

I still pray.

But if I’m honest, those prayers don’t sound the way they used to.

Sometimes they’re desperate.

Sometimes they’re angry.

Sometimes I don’t even ask for anything because I’m tired of wondering why the answer keeps being no.

And that’s the part I feel guilty saying.

Because people expect someone with cancer to either become this incredible example of faith or to completely walk away from God.

I haven’t done either.

I’ve just become someone with a lot of questions.

I don’t understand why bodies betray us.

I don’t understand why medicine can only do so much.

I don’t understand why some people get miracle stories while other families leave the hospital with funeral plans.

I don’t understand why I’ve begged for things that never happened.

I don’t understand why I’m twenty-eight years old and my future is measured in scans instead of milestones.

I know all the verses people send me.

I know God is good.

I know He’s close to the brokenhearted.

I know all of that.

What I don’t know is why knowing it doesn’t make this hurt any less.

Maybe that’s what I’ve been wrestling with.

Not whether God exists.

Whether I know how to trust Him when the life I’m living looks nothing like the one I begged Him for.

There are days I feel guilty because my conversations with Him sound more like arguments than prayers.

There are days I wonder if He’s tired of hearing the same questions.

There are days I don’t open my Bible because I’m afraid it won’t say anything that makes sense to me.

Then there are days I whisper, “Please,” without even realizing I’ve started praying again.

Maybe that’s what keeps me here.

Not certainty.

Not peace.

Not some unshakable faith that never cracks.

Just the fact that even after everything, when I’m terrified, when I’m angry, when I’m exhausted, He’s still who I talk to.

I don’t know if that’s strong faith.

I don’t know if it’s weak faith.

I just know it’s honest.

And maybe that’s where God meets us.

Not when we’ve figured Him out.

But when we’ve finally stopped pretending we have.

Maybe one day I’ll have answers.

Maybe one day I’ll look back at all of this and understand what I can’t see right now.

Or maybe I won’t.

Maybe this side of heaven is full of questions that never get answered.

If that’s true, I hope God isn’t asking me to have perfect faith. I hope He’s asking me to bring Him my real one. The one that’s bruised. The one that’s confused. The one that still cries in the shower, still panics before scans, still wonders why, and still whispers His name anyway.

If you’ve been carrying the same guilt I have because your faith doesn’t look the way it used to, maybe you’re not failing. Maybe you’re just hurting.

And maybe those aren’t the same thing.

Thank you for letting me say the quiet parts out loud.

If this blog resonated with you, I’d love to hear from you in the comments. Whether you’re full of faith, full of questions, or somewhere in between, I hope you know you’re welcome here.

As always, thank you for being part of Mojo & The Mess. Your support, your stories, and your kindness continue to remind me that even in the messiest seasons of life, none of us have to walk through them alone.

Until next time,

Izzy ❤️