One week later I found out that I had breast cancer, and everything changed. Trips were canceled, priorities shifted wildly, and my new version of travel no longer required a passport: For months, the farthest I ventured from my home in New York City was 100 or so blocks to Mount Sinai West hospital.
Still, during that time, I crisscrossed the world in my head. I thought about what travel had given me over the past 15 years as a journalist—and also, what I had taken from it. Always rushing from place to place, chasing the newest trend, FOMOing with the best of them, seeking once-in-a-lifetime, bucket list, and other buzzword-laden, supercharged experiences. What did I get out of that trip? What were my takeaways from that other place? From where I was sitting, at home in bed, it suddenly all seemed so consumptive. Even those words and phrases—takeaway, once-in-a-lifetime, bucket list—expose an insatiable, materialistic mindset. Are these the words of someone who truly travels? I asked myself.
Turns out, I had been missing the self-discovery of travel since long before my great cancer pause. Now, I didn’t miss posting perfect photos to my Instagram feed. I didn’t miss the likes or the bragging rights. I certainly didn’t miss the rat race of always clamoring for what’s next. What I missed was the feeling of totally absorbing a place in a real and human way—and the feeling of belonging that I got when, in some small form, I became a part of that place. I vowed that when I was back up and running, more of my travel would be about being and feeling, rather than just doing, doing, doing.
That’s how exactly 199 days after the words “breast cancer” were first uttered to me in that fluorescent-lit doctor’s office, I ended up arriving at Rosewood Little Dix Bay five hours late, long after dark, travel weary but surprisingly content. I mean, I beat cancer. I think I can handle the benign pains of a late arrival. (It’s amazing how that rationale seems to work in 99 percent of life’s scenarios now.)
The British Virgin Islands had seemed a fitting place to ease myself into a more tempered way of traveling. It is close enough to New York to reach in half a day—barring flight delays, of course—yet isolated enough that I wouldn’t be tempted to pack our schedules with every museum, restaurant, and Top 10 list. And so we booked an entire week and absolutely nothing on the itinerary; not even a dinner. Yet our first day, I’ll admit, was a futile exercise in killing stubborn old habits. All my nagging thoughts were there: Don’t let that perfect view go undocumented. Shouldn’t you be taking notes? Wouldn’t that make great footage for a Reel? Yea, you should be taking notes. Wait—what time is sunset? You should definitely be taking notes!!!
The next day showed remarkable improvement. John, an enviable Type B to my raging Type A, lured me into the crystalline waters of the bay, where we lazed on a floating sundeck and watched a sea turtle pop its head up from the depths at regular intervals. The day’s most important activities were two o’clock ice cream, followed by three o’clock afternoon tea, with consistent reapplication of sunscreen our only real responsibilities.
