Some Days Just Hurt – And That’s Okay

I do not have a list of tips for you today. No five-step plan. No Pinterest-worthy quote about strength. Just this:

Some days just hurt.

And I need you to know that is okay.

I live with Glioblastoma, and while I often write about hope, awareness, and survival, there are days when all I feel is sadness. Some days I do not feel like a fighter. Some days I do not want to be seen as inspiring. I am just a guy with a disease—doing his best—and sometimes, my best looks like staring at the ceiling at 3 a.m., picking apart every decision I have ever made.

If you have ever laid awake dissecting every mistake, every “what if,” every moment you wish you could take back—you are not alone. I do it, too.

If you have ever looked in the mirror and hated what you saw—if you have felt disgusted with your reflection, felt too tired to try, or just felt ugly—you are not alone in that either.

There are days I see this device on my head—Optune—and I do not feel brave or strong. I feel ridiculous. I feel like a science experiment. I feel like the furthest thing from who I used to be. And I hate that.

Some days I feel fat. Other days I feel fragile. I feel like my body is not mine anymore—like it belongs to this diagnosis, to the doctors, to the treatment plans, to the statistics I read late at night like I am studying for a test that might determine my fate.

And then there are days when I feel nothing. Just numb. Just tired.

And you know what?

That is okay, too.

You do not have to find meaning in every moment. You do not have to wrap your pain in silver linings. You do not need to make your grief digestible for others. You are allowed to feel it—messy, raw, unfiltered.

You are allowed to be angry.
You are allowed to cry in the shower.
You are allowed to cancel plans because you just cannot pretend today.
You are allowed to laugh at dark jokes and still be devastated inside.
You are allowed to mourn your old self while showing up for your new one.

You are allowed to feel everything, even when you do not understand it.

This journey we are on—those of us living with cancer, or loving someone who is—it is not neat or noble. It is not always brave. It is a thousand small heartbreaks. It is letting go of who we were, while still trying to hold on to who we are.

It is wondering if people would still see us the same if they knew the truth—that sometimes, we are not fighting, we are just surviving. Barely. Quietly.

And sometimes, not at all.

But here is what I hope you take from this, if nothing else:
You are not broken for feeling broken.
You are not weak for feeling overwhelmed.
You are not failing at life because you feel like giving up.

You are human. And that is enough.

So no, I do not have advice. No silver bow to tie this all up. Just my hand, reaching out through these words, telling you:
I get it. I really do.
And if today hurts, let it.
You do not have to be okay. Not today.

Just know that you are not alone in the dark.

I am right there with you.