I did something impulsive.

Like really impulsive.

I invited myself on my brother’s and sister’s family trip to Cuba. That’s not something I normally do. I’m usually the one who overthinks, hesitates, weighs every possible outcome until the moment has passed. But this time, I just tried.

My passport was expired. Instead of taking that as a sign to back out, I got my photo taken the next day, rushed the renewal, and somehow, miraculously, it arrived within a week. Less than a week before the trip. Everything lined up. It actually worked.

Go figure how things work out sometimes when you try, even when you’re convinced they won’t.

I know worrying isn’t healthy. I know it’s not productive. But if I’m honest, I don’t really imagine things going okay. My brain goes straight to how things could go tremendously wrong. I plan for the worst. Always. And I tell myself that if I expect disaster, I’ll either be pleasantly surprised or at least prepared.

That probably sounds negative. Maybe it is. But it’s how I’ve survived.

Lately, though, the worrying feels heavier.

I’ve written before about death, about dying, and I think that comes from being diagnosed with cancer again. It forces a reckoning you can’t ignore. It reminds you how fragile life is, how close we all are to not being here at all. One day. One diagnosis. One phone call.

When I was first diagnosed, a doctor once told me that if I ever got cancer again, no matter what, it would automatically be considered stage three. That terrified me. For years, I brushed it off. I told myself f*** them and pushed it out of my mind. I never really stopped to understand what that meant.

Now I do.

I keep telling myself I want to live in the moment. To appreciate every day. But the truth is it’s hard. It’s hard just to be. To exist without scanning for danger, without projecting forward, without rehearsing things before they happen.

Mindfulness sounds simple in theory. Separate the anxiety. Stop thinking about what might happen. Stop carrying the weight of the world. Just notice what is. Your friends. Your family. The people you love. The now.

In practice, it’s exhausting.

I work on it every day.

When I was on that trip, I wasn’t really alone, even though it sometimes felt that way. I was surrounded by my siblings and their families, people I love and feel safe with. And still, I felt a quiet discomfort. Not with them, but with myself.

I remember sitting there, looking around, noticing couples holding hands, laughing, leaning into each other. Vacation has a way of amplifying everything. It stirred something in me. A reminder of being alone. Of comparing. Of judging where I am versus where I think I should be.

And maybe that’s the lesson I’m still learning.

To let go.

To just be who I am.

To see things as they are, not as I interpret them.

Not through expectation.

Not through fear.

Not through comparison.

Just presence.

I don’t have this figured out. I don’t think anyone really does. But maybe trying, inviting yourself, renewing the passport, showing up even when you’re uncomfortable, is its own kind of living.

And maybe that was the point all along