• I had been dating a guy for about a month when I took a chance and invited him on a trip.
• I was worried it might be too soon, but the vacation turned out to be a great compatibility test.
• Six years later, he's now my husband. This trip is one we look back on fondly.

How soon is too soon to invite a new romantic partner to go on vacation? I asked myself that when I had been dating a guy for a month and had an upcoming vacation that I had planned before I met him.

During the height of the pandemic lockdown in the spring of 2020, I was going stir-crazy not being able to travel freely. In those early days before vaccines or access to testing, air travel felt risky, and there were even restrictions on interstate travel. As an avid traveler who always has a next destination in mind, I needed something to look forward to during those dark days when I was afraid to hug my parents because of social distancing guidelines.

I didn't know it yet, but a solo adventure to cure my cabin fever would turn into a litmus test for a budding relationship during those unprecedented times.

I planned a trip that seemed doable, even with pandemic restrictions

I loved hiking and the outdoors before the pandemic. While many places were closed due to social distancing mandates, the national parks were mostly still open. I had never been to Acadia National Park in Maine, even though I lived in New England until I was 10. Maine is within a day's drive from my home in the Washington, DC area, so Acadia seemed like a feasible destination.

I was single at the time. I had taken solo trips before and planned to go to Maine on my own. In June, I scheduled my time off from work for the last week of August. I didn't have any accommodations picked out or much of a plan other than driving up to Maine and visiting Acadia.

Then I met someone

In July, I met a guy from a dating app. We hit it off, and soon we were seeing each other multiple times a week. About a month after we first met, we were hanging out, and I said offhand, "I'm going to miss spending time with you when I'm in Maine." He said he was going to miss me too. Then an idea, that seemed crazy, popped into my head. "Well, you could come with me," I blurted out.

As soon as I asked him to join me, I wondered if I had crossed a line. We weren't even in official "boyfriend-girlfriend" territory. We had known each other for a month, and my trip was planned for a month later. Without hesitation, he accepted my invitation to go to Maine.

Going on vacation together was a great relationship test

I was excited my new love interest wanted to join me on vacation, but I couldn't help but consider the potential for disaster. What if we stopped seeing each other before it was time to go on vacation? How would we handle a 9-hour car ride together? What if four days of nonstop togetherness was too much too soon?

As he helped me plan the trip, I got early signals that things would go well. We collaborated on finding a place to stay. We were aligned that while we didn't need a 5-star hotel, we also didn't want a bargain rustic cabin where the only bathroom was an outhouse. The night before we left, he humored my meticulous packing list and impressed me with his ability to load the car as if he were playing Tetris.

The 9-hour drive showed we were a great team, taking turns as the driver or the copilot who assisted with navigation and music selection. We discovered that, as angsty teenagers, we had nearly identical tastes in early 2000s rock music, despite growing up on opposite sides of the Atlantic. Staying together in the cabin ended up being a micro-experiment in living together, which felt effortless.

The trip itself was a blast. We admired the Atlantic Ocean from the top of Cadillac Mountain and skipped rocks on Jordan Pond in Acadia. We went kayaking at the lake by our rented cabin and ate fresh lobster. Inviting someone you're dating on vacation so soon might have been unconventional, but it turned out great. Six years later, we're still together, and the trip remains a fond memory from the early days of our relationship.

• My husband and I wanted to live together before marriage, but our parents weren't happy about it.
• However, my in-laws said we could move into their house as long as we slept in separate rooms.
• Living under the same roof helped me better understand my husband and grow closer to his parents.

I started dating my husband, Daniel, during our junior year of college. However, our relationship was mostly long-distance when we were away from school. Arkansas was my home base, and Georgia was his.

Once we graduated, we even maintained our relationship while traveling and living in separate countries.

We knew our ultimate goal was to get married, and we didn't want to be in a long-distance relationship anymore. So, we discussed getting an apartment together, either in my hometown or his.

However, neither set of parents was happy about our potential plan to live alone together before marriage. Although Daniel and I no longer identify as religious, we both come from Christian families.

So, Daniel's parents, Martin and Louise, offered a compromise: We could move into their house — we just couldn't sleep in the same room.

Living with my in-laws before marriage sounded daunting, but it brought us closer

Religious motivation aside, Daniel's parents also wanted to give us a break on rent since we didn't have much money. By living with them, we'd be able to save for a down payment on a future home.

It seemed tempting, and we didn't want to take their kindness for granted. We ultimately agreed to this setup (and got engaged about a month before moving in), but I had my concerns.

I worried I'd clash with Daniel's parents over day-to-day issues. I liked them, but I didn't know them super well yet. What if we got on each other's nerves? I also didn't like the idea of someone else's religious ideals dictating how I lived.

Thankfully, though, most of my worries about living with my future in-laws turned out to be unwarranted.

We ate dinner together most nights, which meant I was lucky enough to enjoy an amazing home-cooked meal from Louise almost daily.

Martin and Daniel watched baseball on TV most nights, and I used the opportunity to learn about the sport and eventually became a ride-or-die Atlanta Braves fan.

Despite spending time together often, I still felt like I had my space. My in-laws both went to sleep early because they had to wake up early for work, so Daniel and I still had at least a couple of hours to ourselves at night.

Of course, we still had our problems. I still feel bad about repeatedly forgetting there was no garbage disposal and tossing eggshells into the sink, and I was constantly worried about waking them up at night since they were in bed by 9 p.m.

But overall, living together was a positive experience.

I got to know my husband and in-laws in ways I never would have otherwise

After 10 months, Daniel and I got married and moved out on our own. Looking back, I definitely found it valuable to live with him before we made that commitment.

Although Daniel and I slept in separate rooms, living under the same roof still offered a useful preview of married life. It also gave me a profound understanding not just of how Daniel acted, but of why.

Some of this was small. When he visited my family and stacked dishes in the sink instead of immediately putting them in the dishwasher, I considered it rude.

After about 20 meals with his family, I realized they always waited until the sink was full to load the dishwasher. He wasn't being lazy — he was acting in the way he had been raised.

Plus, it helped me better understand my future in-laws. Because of this, we rarely, if ever, have argued about them visiting or one of them hurting my feelings. This removes a layer of potential problems in my marriage.

Living with Daniel's parents could have strained my relationship with them, but it did the opposite. It brought us closer.

Our time together became even more valuable years later

My time living with them became relevant again about a decade later when my father-in-law was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.

Daniel and I were ready to move back in and help however we could. We ended up only having a few weeks with Martin before he died, and stayed for a while after to help Louise tie up loose ends, plan the funeral, and spend extra time with her.

For many people, living with their in-laws for six weeks would be beyond difficult. The emotional, stressful situation still made it hard at times.

However, I was used to living with Louise. I didn't have to tiptoe around the family. I knew how the dynamic worked.

Not only could I live with them for six weeks during a life-altering time, but I was more grateful than ever that I lived with them nearly a decade earlier. I realize now that I wouldn't have gotten to know Martin as well if I hadn't lived in his home.

• I've survived cancer for 19 years, and my scans have been clear for years.
• I still wake up at 3 a.m. worrying about symptoms and whether my cancer could return.
• I've learned that being cancer-free doesn't automatically mean feeling safe in my body.

It's been 19 years since I was diagnosed with peritoneal mesothelioma, and some nights I still wake up at 3 a.m. Not because something is wrong. Not because I'm back in treatment. Not because there's a symptom that is screaming for attention. Just wide-eyed in the dark.

I start doing what I trained myself to do all those years ago: scanning, taking inventory, checking for anything that feels even slightly off. Sometimes, before I fall back asleep, I've already Googled it. The symptom. The ache. The random thought that popped into my head.

I sometimes even nudge my husband awake and talk it through in the dark. He'll gently say, "Don't Google it. Go to sleep. You're good, babe."

Intellectually, I believe him. But physiologically, I am still alert.

My scans have been clear for years, but I still worry

This is what surviving cancer can look like. And one thing I've learned is that high functioning doesn't mean unaffected.

During doctor visits, I say I'm doing well. And in many ways, I am. I work. I lead. I parent. I function at a high level. My scans have been clear for years. But high-functioning does not always mean regulated, and that distinction matters in cancer survivorship because being declared clear does not automatically mean your body feels safe.

There were seasons when I was convinced something was wrong with my heart. Or my lungs. A tightness in my chest. A shallow breath. A sensation I couldn't quite name but could not ignore. My body would tense before my mind even caught up. I knew what it felt like to almost lose my life once. So my nervous system stayed on alert, just in case.

And yet I built a full life after treatment. I went back to work. I raised my children. I stepped into leadership. I advocated. I thrived in ways I once wasn't sure would be possible.

Outside, I looked steady. Capable. Strong.

Internally, it can look entirely different, chronic hypervigilance running quietly beneath the surface, sleep disrupted by racing thoughts about recurrence, a persistent need for control, repeated symptom research, quiet bracing before every scan. Because I was functioning, the anxiety wasn't obvious. Not to others. And sometimes not even for me.

It hid inside productivity. It dressed itself up as responsibility. It sounded like preparation and diligence. It looked like staying informed, staying ready, staying ahead.

For a long time, I called it strength. It took years to realize that some of what I was carrying wasn't just resilience. It was vigilance that had never fully powered down.

I would replay doctor's visits while driving

I noticed it most while driving alone. My thoughts would replay doctor visits in detail, analyzing tone, pauses, and phrasing. Did I ask the right questions? Did they miss something? Should I follow up sooner? The appointment might have gone well. The scans might have been clear. But my brain continued processing as if there were still a threat to solve.

Over time, I came to understand this differently. It wasn't fragility. It was conditioning. During treatment, attention to detail mattered. Vigilance mattered. Survival required it. My mind simply had not fully turned off that system. To be honest, it's still working on it.

I have 19 years of perspective

I noticed that in cancer survivorship care, emotional screenings often prioritize depression or acute distress. High-functioning anxiety often falls below those thresholds. A survivor who reports returning to work and managing responsibilities may not appear at risk. She may hesitate to show fear because she believes she should be past this by now. She may minimize symptoms to avoid appearing ungrateful.

Gratitude and anxiety often coexist. Composure can mask dysregulation. "I'm fine" can mean I'm functioning, and not necessarily that I feel safe.

When high-functioning anxiety stays unacknowledged, the effects accumulate quietly. And the hardest one to explain is an emotional fatigue that has no obvious source.

It doesn't look like exhaustion. It looks like getting through a full, productive day, working, leading, showing up for everyone who needs me, and feeling completely depleted by early evening with nothing specific to blame it on. It looks like sitting in a meeting, fully present and contributing, while another part of me is quietly managing an undercurrent that has nothing to do with what's being discussed. It looks like needing more alone time than I used to, not because anything went wrong, but because holding it all together in the foreground takes more out of me than anyone can see.

Some days it shows up as a short fuse over something small. Not because it matters that much, but because the reserves were already lower than they appeared.

The hardest part is that there's often nothing to point to. No difficult scan. No hard appointment. No clear reason to feel worn thin. And that absence of an obvious cause can make you question yourself, wonder if you're being dramatic, or ungrateful for a life you fought hard to keep. So, you push through it, dismiss it, and don't mention it at the next appointment because how do you explain fatigue that has no story attached to it?

High-functioning anxiety doesn't define me

I have built a full life since my diagnosis. I lead. I advocate. I thrive in ways I once questioned were possible. But high-functioning anxiety has been part of that journey. It does not define me. It does not dominate me. But it has shaped how I move through the world, particularly in moments where health is discussed.

As a long-term cancer survivor, when I say that I am doing well, at times, I'm telling the truth. At that moment, I may also be managing a nervous system that remembers something my medical chart no longer reflects as current.

Survivorship is not only about the absence of disease; it can also be about restoration. And that process can last far longer than anyone expects.

Leave it to Arundhati Roy to deliver a scorching, dizzying essay on the perils of artificial intelligence that references Greek mythology, Francis Ford Coppola, the Bible, India’s industrial history, and Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! Plus, Emily Dickinson features in the lede:

The auguries are raining down hard. Think or Sink. Comply or Die. Look Up or be Left Out. And so, with these not-so-gentle threats, it has come to pass that the Age of AI—Actual Idiocy, Actual Super Idiocy, Recursive Snowballing-Idiocy—is upon us. Heck, I’ve already used two dashes in this opening paragraph. That, as they say, is a tell. So, perhaps I haven’t written this essay at all. You’d have to use an AI app to check if it’s actually AI, and whether I’m really, or not really, or only partially me. You can no longer use your instincts. You have to use the App. Now that AI owns the em dash, what will future generations make of Emily Dickinson and her love of them? Has she been fed to the machine, too? Will they love her less? Are we being gradually locked out of language? Does it matter anymore?

• Last summer, Erin Levi left Connecticut and moved to Montreal on her own.
• She barely knew anyone in the city, and relocating at 42 gave her a panic attack.
• Moving to a new city while working for herself was hard, but it made her feel brave.

Last summer, I left my life in Connecticut behind and moved to Montreal on a whim, without a plan.

People told me I was brave.

Really? I'm a travel journalist. I've followed a snow leopard expert across Nepal; I've lived with a family in Uzbekistan who didn't speak English; and I've had a private encounter with the King of Bhutan.

Montreal is only a 6-hour drive from my hometown in Connecticut. It didn't seem brave to me. It seemed, frankly, safe.

Yet moving here at 42 gave me a panic attack. I hadn't been to Canada in more than 12 years and barely knew anyone.

After my parents dropped me off, we spent a few days exploring my new city together, where it's easy to get by without a car — it felt like the start of another semester abroad. Except this time, I was older and had no plans to leave.

The last time I'd been in Montréal with my parents was in the summer of 2003, before I left for a semester abroad in Hanoi. I had my first pho in Montréal's Chinatown.

So why Montreal?

A Facebook post on a full moon in May changed my life.

My lease in Ridgefield, Connecticut, was up. So was my relationship. My landlord wanted an extra $500 a month for the lofty, 1,100-square-foot, one-bedroom apartment in the woods that I had been sharing with my now-ex. That would bring the rent to $3,250 a month, not including utilities, which often reached $700 during the winter because of the high ceilings.

I saw all of this as signs to leave.

But I was about to write a check for $5,985 upfront for a $1,995-a-month, 900-square-foot, one-bedroom duplex nearby and buy a car.

Then a Canadian friend shared that her 638-square-foot, one-bedroom apartment near Montréal's Little Italy was available for 6 months at a writer-friendly rent: 1,100 Canadian dollars, or about $775 a month, including utilities, WiFi, furniture, and a beautiful patio. My friend is a professor and works abroad for half the year.

Ever since my first job at Tourisme Québec's New York office — the role that ultimately launched my travel-writing career — I'd wanted to live in Montreal. I also speak French. It seemed like a no-brainer, so I said "oui."

I found out that Americans can spend up to 6 months in Canada per visit. However, anyone who spends more than 183 days in the country in a calendar year may have to pay taxes. Foreign media workers like me also don't require a work permit. I consulted an immigration lawyer about staying in Canada.

My new life in Canada

Since moving, I've learned to row. I take weekly lessons at the Olympic Basin, where beginner courses cost CA$200 each. Gliding hundreds of meters solo in a scull has been one of the best antidotes to my anxiety. Socially, though, I should've joined the dragon boat team.

My neighborhood, La Petite-Patrie, is home to some of the city's top restaurants, including Vin Mon Lapin, Pasta Pooks, and Limbo. And Marché Jean-Talon — the largest open-air market north of Mexico — is my local grocer.

Some cultural highlights have included celebrating Jewish holidays at Leonard Cohen's shul, attending my first F1 race, cross-country skiing in Parc du Mont-Royal, and going to a hockey game solo.

Sure, there's been loneliness. There's been longing. It's not easy moving to a new city when you work for yourself. Nor is it easy being more than 10 minutes from my parents — and their delicious cooking. But I've also made new friends, hosted old friends, and opened my heart.

Brave, eh? Perhaps I really am.