I’m 24 Years Old and have a Rare, Late-Stage Cancer

Musings on mortality, time and a shitty diagnosis.

On paper, I’m the healthiest person most people know.

As an avid fitness junkie, former Division I athlete and could’ve-been-nutritionist, cancer as a young adult was never an idea on which I chewed. Health and fitness has always been an element of my personal brand. So much so, that although it pains me to admit this; at one point I even had a Fitstagram.

I’ve lived life to the fullest since I was a teenager — of course(!) I’ve never grappled with my own mortality.

In fact, for the past 24 years, my operating rhythm has been predicated on the worst case scenario. With big decisions, my approach has always been as follows: what if the worst thing in the world happens? As it turns out, for the vast majority of things, the worst case scenario really isn’t that bad.

For example: I’m 22, I graduated college a week ago and want to move from my hometown, San Diego, to New York City for an hourly job at a startup.

Realistic worst case scenario: I take the risk, fumble massively and move back home to San Diego for a short stint. I brush myself off, get back on the horse and find another path.

Not so bad, huh?