Cosmopolitan Australia Issue 8

A couple of years ago, when I lived in LA, I met a cute guy named Todd* at a day bar. We hit it off and chatted until the sun set, agreeing to meet up for an official date the very next day. hat followed was the most fun I’d had in a while: we got coffee, bonded over our shared wanderlust, and – after he told me about a recent trip to Thailand – exchanged instagrams.

“I had the best time and would love to see you again soon,” Todd said as we hugged goodbye. “Maybe dinner this week?” I couldn’t tame the butterflies in my stomach. But when got home, I started to wonder how he would react to my Instagram. I posted regularly (at least once a week to nearly 60,000 followers) and my grid was full of beachy, day-in-the-life selfies mixed with chemo treatments and cold capping. I can’t say for sure what Todd thought of it, of my stage 4 bile duct cancer diagnosis, because I never heard from him again.

Months later, I met tall, fit Jake on my daily walk when he stopped me after seeing my Dartmouth sweatshirt. We playfully bantered about Ivy League rivalries (he had gone to Brown), he as ed me to dinner, and we traded numbers. He sent an initial text that night and responded, belatedly realising my contact-sharing feature was on, giving him my full name. Then nothing. again.

Had I imagined I’d gotten along with these guys better than we actually did? Had I unintentionally said something embarrassing? Was I just overthinking? After all, men in LA are notoriously noncommittal. At the same time, I couldn’t shake the feeling that they’d looked me up (the first Google results for my name mention my illness), seen the word “cancer,” and declined to get involved.

Truly, I don’t blame them if that’s what really happened. I would be spooked by the idea of dating someone living with a rare cancer, too. It doesn’t exactly scream casual, carefree or sexy.

I don’t keep my diagnosis a secret, but can’t exactly lead with it either. Sometimes I play out what that would look like in my mind. hen a first date as s an innocent, “So, what have you been up to recently?” I say, “Oh, you know, just chemo.”

Then there’s the physical aspect. Not my appearance – I still have my hair, and my skin doesn’t have the jaundiced look that bile duct cancer sometimes causes. I’m talking about the chronic nausea and fatigue that come from getting chemo three times a month. Right now, I have to prioritise my health, but it’s frustrating that any potential romantic relationships can’t seem to get off the ground, and when they do there’s always something off.

Like the time resurrected a fizzled-out Hinge chat with a man named am and we decided on a coffee date later that wee . Anxiety set in, but told myself, we can do hard things. Normally, I’d say this during chemo, but somehow this also felt dire. During the date, wondered how long could evade the -word. e breezed through the getting-to-know-you basics and I felt so relieved – optimistic, even. That was unfortunately short-lived. “I’ll be honest,” he said when I was halfway through my strawberry matcha, “I actually did look you up before this.” My heart sank to my toes. “I think it’s actually really cool you have cancer.” Huh? I’m not sure “cool” is the word for it, but OK. He went on: “You just have a different perspective than the other girls I’ve talked to. What’s it like? Are you in pain a lot o you feel sic ” Suddenly, did. felt like some sort of zoo attraction to him no longer a person but something curious to explore.

Maybe my TikTok, where I post multiple vlogs a day about living with cancer, made him thin ’m casual about it. But that’s just how cope, with videos and jokes about my diagnosis. I’m aware that may sound silly to some, but reading countless DMs from people saying my posts give them strength – or that they can relate to the things I talk about – makes me feel less alone and less behind, too. y friends are settling down, wondering when they’ll take the next steps with their boyfriends and making their five-year plans. wonder if ’ll be here in five years. I don’t mean that in a sad way but more so that I’ve accepted that I can’t wait until I’m healthy again to live. Cancer is something I’m dealing with, not my entire identity. So despite some shitty dating experiences, haven’t given up on the idea of finding real love. Until that happens, I’ll keep putting myself out there (on social media and in real life), and I won’t stop romanticising even the smallest moments. Whether it’s treating myself to a sweet drink or hanging out with my friends, I cherish knowing that these tiny, fleeting points in time are all have right now and that they’re enough. They’re all any of us have, really. I might just be more aware of it.

I live in New York City now, where the dating pool is equally rough. Although my friends seem to be managing – just before Valentine’s Day this year at one of their apartments, we talked about their boyfriends, relationships and holiday plans. One had booked a couples cooking class, another was planning to leave for a spa weekend getaway, someone else was verbally processing potentially moving in together, and yet another was swiping through wedding dresses on Pinterest.

I’m sure the whole building rolled their eyes at our giddy squeals. My face hurt from smiling, and thought my heart might explode from all of their joy. Inside, though, it also felt like it was shrinking. I was elated for them, of course, especially because their love stories give me hope for my own. But wish I could share the love I have to give with someone in those same ways. It hasn’t happened yet, but it also doesn’t feel impossible – and in the meantime, I’m soaking up all the love around me through my friends.

SYDNEY TOWLE is a social media manager, content creator, model and writer living in New York City. She shares her life, learnings and journey with rare cancer on social media and her Substack Stoop Thoughts.

“My friends are wondering about next steps with their boyfriends and making their five-year plans. I wonder if I’ll be here in five years.”