One week later I came upon that I had breast most cancers, and all the pieces modified. Journeys have been canceled, priorities shifted wildly, and my new model of journey not required a passport: For months, the farthest I ventured from my dwelling in New York City was 100 or so blocks to Mount Sinai West hospital.

Nonetheless, throughout that point, I crisscrossed the world in my head. I thought of what journey had given me over the previous 15 years as a journalist—and in addition, what I had taken from it. All the time speeding from place to put, chasing the most recent pattern, FOMOing with the most effective of them, in search of once-in-a-lifetime, bucket checklist, and different buzzword-laden, supercharged experiences. What did I get out of that journey? What have been my takeaways from that different place? From the place I used to be sitting, at dwelling in mattress, it out of the blue all appeared so consumptive. Even these phrases and phrases—takeaway, once-in-a-lifetime, bucket checklist—expose an insatiable, materialistic mindset. Are these the phrases of somebody who really travels? I requested myself.

Seems, I had been lacking the self-discovery of journey since lengthy earlier than my nice most cancers pause. Now, I didn’t miss posting good photographs to my Instagram feed. I didn’t miss the likes or the bragging rights. I definitely didn’t miss the rat race of all the time clamoring for what’s subsequent. What I missed was the sensation of completely absorbing a spot in an actual and human means—and the sensation of belonging that I acquired when, in some small kind, I grew to become part of that place. I vowed that after I was again up and operating, extra of my journey could be about being and feeling, quite than simply doing, doing, doing

That’s how precisely 199 days after the phrases “breast most cancers” have been first uttered to me in that fluorescent-lit physician’s workplace, I ended up arriving at Rosewood Little Dix Bay 5 hours late, lengthy after darkish, journey weary however surprisingly content material. I imply, I beat most cancers. I believe I can deal with the benign pains of a late arrival. (It’s superb how that rationale appears to work in 99 p.c of life’s situations now.)

The British Virgin Islands had appeared a becoming place to ease myself right into a extra tempered means of touring. It’s shut sufficient to New York to achieve in half a day—barring flight delays, in fact—but remoted sufficient that I would not be tempted to pack our schedules with each museum, restaurant, and Prime 10 checklist. And so we booked a complete week and completely nothing on the itinerary; not even a dinner. But our first day, I’ll admit, was a futile train in killing cussed outdated habits. All my nagging ideas have been there: Don’t let that good view go undocumented. Shouldn’t you be taking notes? Wouldn’t that make nice footage for a Reel? Yea, try to be taking notes. Wait—what time is sundown? You need to undoubtedly be taking notes!!!

The following day confirmed outstanding enchancment. John, an enviable Sort B to my raging Sort A, lured me into the crystalline waters of the bay, the place we lazed on a floating sundeck and watched a sea turtle pop its head up from the depths at common intervals. The day’s most essential actions have been two o’clock ice cream, adopted by three o’clock afternoon tea, with constant reapplication of sunscreen our solely actual obligations.

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