I knew I wanted to move to NYC since I was 14. You could say it was one of those cliché reasons: I was obsessed with Sex and the City and wanted a studio apartment in Manhattan where I lived with my shoes and wrote in my slip dress all day. But it was much more than that. I had a dream to chase; one that seemed implausible and almost wild to many yet I was determined. What 14-year-old knows exactly what they want to do when they grow up? Well, me.

After I graduated from Syracuse Universty in 2012 I had no money and no job prospects but I did move home with a degree in magazine journalism and a large amount of debt. Home was Portland, Oregon, a bit farther from NYC than I liked. During the summer everyone always asked me, “so, are you actually moving?” I don’t think anyone believed me. But at the time I wasn’t sure if I believed in myself either. The thought scared me—I didn’t know how to do it, what to do once I got there, or how I was going to afford it. But I knew if I didn’t do it I would regret it for the rest of my life.

Several job applications later, I had a phone interview for an (unpaid) internship in NYC. They asked when I could start. I told them two weeks. I bought my plane ticket that day and moved two weeks later.

My life was in boxes. My shoes barely zipped into my suitcase. I sold my car for $1000 to my ex-boyfriend’s roommate and he gave me an extra $100 for good luck. That was the money I moved to NYC with.

I sobbed onto my mom’s shoulder as I was preparing to go through security in the Portland airport. Was I scared? Hell yeah. Was she scared for me? Probably. But she let me fly anyway.

Six hours later I was standing outside of JFK with three suitcases hailing a cab, already sweating from the humidity. I was heading to my friend’s apartment in South Brooklyn where I would crash on the sofa. I gave the taxi driver the address and he asked if I knew how to get there? “uh…..” I said. He definitely took advantage and took me the long way. $60 later I was standing on the steps of my friend’s apartment.

That was Friday. I started my internship on Monday at a fashion website. Two weeks later I had an apartment in Queens, a job at a retail store, and had already interviewed the designers of Marchesa.

It wasn’t easy—well getting the job was, I just went to an unemployment agency and had a job by the next day. Two of my friends (a couple, I wouldn’t suggest it) and I were planning to live together and were attempting to look at apartments together, first via Facebook message, then physically looking at the apartments. Since I had already started my internship I wasn’t able to go to any of the viewings and trusted their judgment—we signed the lease for one way out in a quiet yet inconvenient neighborhood in Queens without seeing it.

The day we signed our lease was the first day I puked on the subway platform. I don’t know what it was—nerves, the fact that I had been drinking the tap water (the girl I was living with was shocked when she saw me filling my cup in the sink), or food poisoning (from Chef Boyardee?)—but I was ill. The train was packed in the morning. I was standing in a tight crowd. I was sweating. I felt pale. I felt like I was going to pass out and fall over (where? I don’t know). Then the nausea hit. I held my blazer up to my mouth in case I couldn’t contain it anymore. The woman in front of me asked, “are you okay?” I shook my head with my jacket still over my mouth. “Get off the next stop,” she said. We were on an express train—I watched it pass three stops before I got off and proceeded to vomit down the platform. No one stopped. They walked right over it as if it were water spilling from a fountain.

I caught the next train and met my friends. I vomited again on the sidewalk. I signed my lease, called out from my internship, and slept the rest of the day.

I moved in before my friends did. I was too broke to take a taxi so I moved my suitcases through the subway—one by one. It took 1 1/2 hours from my friend’s apartment in Brooklyn to my new apartment in Queens. I moved one suitcase, then went to Target to buy an air mattress (that I slept on for eight months until it popped). I was going to Fashion’s Night Out that night for Marchesa’s event at Sephora and had to rush to get ready. I don’t think my hair was quite dry as I sipped my free cocktail and interviewed Keren Craig.

The post needed to be up the next morning so I headed back to my friend’s apartment to use her WiFi. My plan was to quickly write it then move one more suitcase.

I lived off the M train—possibly the worst of them all, except for the G. It stops running after midnight between Manhattan and Brooklyn. I thought I was going to catch the last one but I didn’t. Instead I had to lug my 50 pound suitcase up and down stairs for three transfers. Of course, the L train wasn’t running and shuttle buses came sporadically for the massive crowd of people waiting. I couldn’t be aggressive with the suitcase. Five buses later I was on my way to Queens, watching the route on my phone because I had no idea where I was.

It took me three hours to get home that night. It was almost 3 am. When I got inside I sat down on the bare floor of my bedroom and just sat under the ceiling fan blowing hot air around me. I stared at the air mattress still in its box. I thought, “what the hell am I doing?” I had no pillows or bedding so I slept on the bare mattress. In the heat.

One week later I was at my first fashion show.

Less than two years later I’m working at one of the top fashion magazines in the world.

I know what I’m doing.