Live Unapologetically

I just spent six nights in Orlando, and I want to talk about why I did it the way I did. I want to talk about the expensive dinner, the fun drink, the long lines, the late nights, the heat that wrapped itself around my shoulders like a heavy blanket. I want to talk about laughing with strangers and cheering during the Indiana Jones show, and about sitting at Be Our Guest with a grin on my face because the kid in me felt seen. I want to talk about saying yes. About taking time for myself without apologizing to my calendar, my bank account, or to anyone who thinks joy needs to be rationed. I want this to reach the person with a cancer diagnosis, and the person without one. Because the truth is simple. All of us have an expiration date. All of us deserve to live before we reach it.

The trip was hot. I am not going to pretend it was not. Orlando in that kind of heat turns walking into an athletic event. You learn to time your steps between patches of shade. You pick rides that promise air conditioning. You slow down or you pay for it later. I carried a bottle of water like it was a precious relic. I reapplied sunscreen like a ritual. Sometimes I felt great. Sometimes I did not. Toward the end I got sick, and it would be very easy to let that be the headline. But that is not the story. The story is that life is more than the parts that are hard. Life is a series of choices, and this time I chose myself.

People love to tell you to be practical. Save the money. Skip the upgraded meal. Do the bare minimum. I have said those things to myself for years. Be safe. Be small. Be careful. Then I found myself living with brain cancer, and the volume on those old rules turned down. I am not reckless, but I am no longer interested in telling myself that joy is too expensive. The truth is that joy costs what it costs, and the bill for regret is always higher.

Let me tell you about that dinner at Be Our Guest. There is a particular feeling that comes from stepping into a space that was designed to trigger wonder. The lighting is soft. The room glows. Plates arrive that look like small pieces of art. I ate slowly. I took photos. I tasted everything because I wanted to. I did not calculate the price per bite. I did not apologize for liking nice things. I have survived enough needles and waiting rooms to know that a beautiful meal in a beautiful place is not a luxury for other people. It is nourishment for the part of me that is still a kid, and it is permission for the adult in me to stop keeping a tight leash on joy.

The Indiana Jones show made me laugh out loud. There is something powerful about watching people throw themselves into a stunt and make it look effortless. I cheered without looking around to see who else was cheering. I let myself have fun the way kids have fun. I was all in. Later, I sat with a cold drink that was more novelty than necessity, and I loved it anyway. The cup was ridiculous. The garnish was ridiculous. The whole thing was a little extra, and I felt very alive. That is a sentence that might sound dramatic unless you have ever had to stare down your own mortality. Then it just sounds accurate.

If you live with a cancer diagnosis, here is what I want you to hear. You do not need a permission slip to enjoy your life. You do not need to justify the steak or the souvenir or the second dessert. You do not need to explain why you want to sit by the pool instead of pushing through another ride queue. You are allowed to curate a day that puts your comfort first. You are allowed to spend money on experiences that put more light in your brain than fear. You are allowed to leave early when your body says it is time. You are allowed to stay late when your spirit says it needs just a little more magic.

If you are not living with a cancer diagnosis, I hope you still hear this. You have an expiration date, too. It is written in invisible ink, but it is there. Do not let that sentence scare you. Let it wake you up. When you are offered a seat at your own life, sit down. When your friend asks you to take a trip, say yes. When you stand in a park and the fireworks start, stop scrolling and look up. Put your phone away for the length of a song and feel the bass drum in your chest. Do the expensive meal once in a while. Order the silly drink once in a while. Not to show off. Not to keep up. Just to remind yourself that you are here.

I got sick near the end of the trip. It was not dramatic, just the kind of sick that tells you your body is not a machine. I did not turn the story of my trip into the story of getting sick. I drank water. I rested. I listened. I looked out the window and watched clouds move over Florida sky. I thought about how the old version of me would have been angry that I could not power through. I thought about how much energy I have spent trying to be indestructible. Then I thought about the new agreement I am making with my life. I will not measure a good day by how much I pushed. I will measure it by how much I paid attention.

Here is what I noticed. The smell of popcorn drifting down a street and the way it makes you feel six years old for no clear reason. The way cast members smile in a way that is not fake, just practiced kindness. A kid in front of me who was brave in a moment that mattered to him, and how his dad looked at him like he was a superhero. A teenager who gave up a parade spot so a little girl could see. The first sip of iced coffee after walking in the heat. The satisfying silence in a room when everyone is eating something delicious at the same time. The cheer that rolls through a crowd when a show hits its big moment, and how it lifts you whether you meant to be lifted or not.

There is a phrase people like to use. Live unapologetically. I used to hear it and think it was a hashtag. Now it feels like a simple instruction. I am not talking about living selfishly. I am talking about clearing out the voice that is always asking for permission and replacing it with a voice that knows how to say yes with intention. Yes to long walks at night. Yes to taking the midday break when the sun is brutal. Yes to buying the souvenir pin because it will make you smile when you see it on your desk next month. Yes to sitting by the window and letting the evening turn the sky pink without rushing to the next thing.

People ask if trips like this are worth the money. Here is my answer. I will forget the exact dollar amount. I will remember the moment in the Indiana Jones show when the music swelled and the crowd clapped like we were at a championship game. I will remember the way I felt sitting in that dining room at Be Our Guest. I will remember the laughter with people whose names I never learned, and how we became a tiny community for an hour. I will remember the weight of the heat, and how good the shade felt, and how proud I was that I listened to my body. I will remember saying yes. Those memories are not free, but they are worth more than they cost.

If you are reading this and your calendar is full of appointments you do not want, I see you. If your week is scheduled in scans and lab results, I see you. Make a plan anyway. It does not have to be six nights in Orlando. It can be one afternoon where you decide that you will do what feels good and let the rest roll past you. It can be a drive with the windows down and your favorite song at full volume. It can be a nice dinner at home with flowers on the table because you decided the table deserved flowers. It can be a trip you save for and take when you are ready. Let yourself have the thing that reminds you why you are doing the hard stuff.

I went to Disney World and I did not apologize for enjoying it. I did not apologize for the fancy meal or the silly drink or the slow morning. I did not apologize for leaving a ride line when I needed to sit down. I did not apologize for smiling at strangers. I did not apologize for acting like a kid at a show that made me clap without thinking. I kept my promises to myself. I kept choosing yes. That is what I want to remember. That is what I want to carry home.

When I look back at the trip, I do not see perfection. I see something better. I see a life that I am actually living. I see a person who has a right to joy and took it. I see someone who understands that time is precious, not because a doctor said so, but because it is true for everyone. I see a week where I practiced the art of being here. I recommend it. If you need a sign, let this be it. Book the meal. Take the picture. Order the drink. Sit in the shade. Cheer at the show. Laugh with strangers. Go to bed tired and happy. Wake up and do a little more of what reminds you that you are alive.

That is what this trip gave me. It gave me proof that living unapologetically is not a slogan. It is a habit you build, one yes at a time. And I plan to keep building it.