• 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.

• 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.