One rainy winter evening in New York, as I sat in my hospital bed at Memorial Sloan Kettering, I gathered the courage to ask my oncologist a question: *What if I wanted to have sex during treatment?* I didn’t want to seem inappropriate or distracted from the real goal—surviving cancer—but I figured it was worth knowing… just in case. Was it even safe?

From 2017 to 2018, at 36 years old, I was fighting stage 4 non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. I was also single. Instead of enjoying my flirtatious late 30s in the city, I was stuck in the hospital for days at a time, undergoing life-saving treatment while my immune system was under siege. The chemo was brutal—wiping me out, stealing my hair, and leaving me feeling anything but desirable. It’s no wonder I was fiercely protective of my body and my confidence.

So I understood the impulse that drove Molly Kochan, a woman diagnosed with stage 4 cancer, to leave her marriage and embrace sexual and romantic exploration. Her story was beautifully told by her best friend Nikki Boyer in the podcast *Dying for Sex*, which has now been adapted into a Hulu miniseries premiering today.

When I asked my oncologist about sex, part of me expected—maybe even hoped—he’d tell me to forget about dating and focus solely on recovery. In a way, I wanted permission to take a break from the exhausting world of romance.

But to my surprise, he gave me the green light. His advice? Use protection and avoid anyone who was sick. Funny enough, those were pretty much the same rules I’d followed *before* cancer.

Still, dating in New York is hard enough when you’re healthy—let alone when you’re navigating the physical and emotional chaos of cancer treatment. Add in the logistical nightmares of doctor’s appointments, bone-deep exhaustion, and living with my parents in my late 30s (though I’ll forever be grateful for their care), and my love life was effectively on ice. I wasn’t even allowed to grab food from a truck or leave the house without a mask—hardly the ideal setup for dating app adventures.

Yet, in my darker moments, I wondered: *Would I die before I ever had sex again?*

A year after finishing treatment, not only did I have sex again—I gave myself permission to be bolder, take risks, and live in the moment. That led me to explore relationships I might have avoided before—some I *should* have avoided, honestly—and others that turned out to be wonderful surprises.

A few months post-treatment, with my new buzz cut looking tough as hell, I was determined to soak up every bit of life—just in case my cancer-free status didn’t last. One random Wednesday night, I went out for burgers and karaoke with a close friend and two of her pals, including a guy she’d briefly dated. With her blessing (and plenty of laughter all around), I ended up going home with him.

It was the perfect way to ease back into dating: a no-strings fling with a guy who wasn’t fazed by my medical history and had enough hair for both of us. No awkwardness, no pressure.

Then came the pendulum swing—first into overly familiar territory (rekindling something with an ex from a decade ago, because *maybe this time would be different?*), and later into uncharted waters: a secret summer affair with…Living with a charming but unreliable housemate. (Spoiler: Still a bad idea, even after surviving cancer and chasing that “live in the moment” high.)

Now, nearly seven years later, I catch myself slipping back into overprotectiveness—ironically, the healthier I get, the less willing I am to take romantic risks. But I can’t shake the memory of lying in that hospital bed, unsure if I’d ever feel well enough to even think about sex again. It’s a reminder to keep embracing life’s sweet surprises—and not to wait until it’s too late.