The two years I lived in New York were rushed. It took me a year to make friends, to get comfortable in the classroom, to feel confident navigating everywhere from the Far Rockaways to Arthur Avenue. I really, quite literally, went from falling into train tracks to pulling people off.
My second year was a little more nuanced. I stopped learning about the city and started learning a little more about who I am. I won’t get into that, because who wants to hear about that. But I will say that I found out a lot, and most of what I discovered didn’t come without consequences. A lot of it was not pretty. Some of it was. Mostly not.
Then I moved to Boston to be with my person. Things came together pretty peacefully. A lot of those scary things about myself just went away, but I was faced with some other mountains. And that’s fine. I can’t say I climbed all of them. Also, for the record, don’t move to Boston. They have no pizza and no tacos. I mean they have tacos but… not really.
So now I’m on to what is next. Los Angeles awaits