The Cancer Cart

A note from Rachel:

Rachel needs this journal the way some people need confession— because some pages aren’t for sharing, they’re for surviving. This olive suede notebook doesn’t scream; it whispers. It’s not “live, laugh, love.” It’s write, rage, rest. The color says grounded, even when her world is anything but. The cover is soft but tough, like her. And those 192 lined pages? That’s 192 tiny sanctuaries. 192 places to dump the day’s grief like spoiled fruit at a market stall and dare it to rot somewhere else. It's therapy without the co-pay. Gospel without a preacher. A lover that only listens. Because when the meds stop working, the sleep won’t come, and the thoughts won’t quit— Rachel needs a place where the pain becomes poetry. This is that place.