
I was always led to believe I just had to move to New York City. I’m not entirely sure by who (me), but all I know is the urge existed before I registered it and every family trip back to Long Island confirmed it. Taking the train to the city felt like the Hogwarts Express taking me to the place I was destined to be. Well, today marks four months since I moved. Train rides over the East River still haven’t lost their charm, but now I see the reason for my move, much like Hogwarts, was never real. A great story, but never real.
Fall has settled into its place, my cappuccino is warm, and I’m staring at the flower shop across the street deciding which ones best symbolize my independence (I can buy myself flowers, thank you for asking.) Around me are dozens of others like couples speaking closely, thoughtful readers, and zombies adjusting to time changes. This place, this moment, is everything I wanted it to be and more—but that does not make it “everything.”
Feelings like content and inspired can come from anywhere, including the Florida shores I was convinced I had to leave. Like a hermit crab searching for a bigger painted shell, I spent months, even years, deciding Florida wasn’t enough. Why? Couldn’t tell you. It just wasn’t “it” for me. When the once-quiet calling got too loud, I picked up a few suitcases and a dog and went on my way. I finally did the thing. But I was nowhere near done. Little did I know I still had to contend with an apartment that was never really mine, literal swarms of flies, rejections, uncertainty, regret, homesickness, actual sickness, and constantly making sure my dog isn’t sticking his head in a rat trap. Even now with a new place, good job, and better bearings, there is still no big enough shell or end in sight. That’s because the place is not feeling or the end. The goal isn’t even the end. There is no end. There is only where I am and how I choose to see it — how I choose to experience it.
I can’t help but feel bad for the times I judged my old homes for not being enough. I want to take back all my presumptuous answers to the frequently-asked question of, “Why New York?” I feel silly for putting the weight of achieving on something as blameless as a zip code. I love my block of Brooklyn, this new home, and a crisp autumn perspective, but even all of that will never check every box. Only I can do that.
With this, I shed a little of the fear knowing I could be anywhere, in any shell, being just as happy. I could spend a year, a month, or a week in New York and have “done it” just the same. I worry a little less if my Instagram looks New York enough. I don’t stress over what I’m going to tell people when they ask how things are. I don’t need to spend days in the city soaking it all in. I am immeasurably grateful, but not indebted. I am here because I want to be. And isn’t that wonderful?