Why I Didn't move to New york, after all
I’ve always wanted to live in New York. For years, I imagined finding the right excuse to go: a new opportunity, a change of scenery, a little adventure.
The excitement of the city thrills me, and I love the dining and culture. I mean, how could you not? People say it’s loud and crowded, but don’t people say the same things about San Francisco?
So I decided to take the leap. How hard could it be? I could meet people everywhere, I told myself. The weather? Surely a good coat could solve at least some of my problems.
I announced my plans on Twitter, thinking that if I announced them, they would somehow become real. I couldn’t back down now; I had an audience, after all.
The plan was to settle in temporarily and explore, neighborhood by neighborhood, until I found somewhere I felt comfortable. Somewhere I fit. I imagined excitement, new experiences, an expanse of things I couldn’t even yet imagine.
On the flight there, I chatted with a woman who loved living in New York and assured me I would, too. I journaled my thoughts and ideas. I wrote down what I wanted to manifest there (I am from California, after all). There were snacks. There was extra cheese. I took these as very good signs.
I was feeling practically buoyant.
Somewhere between all that optimism and the journaling, though, I began to feel vulnerable. For all my enthusiasm, New York intimidated me. It’s “the big city” of big cities, after all. Where everyone goes to make it or break it, or so they say.
But what does it really mean to “make it”?
I got lonely. I missed familiar faces and the ease of being somewhere I already knew. There were missed connections, plans that fell through, and the particular exhaustion of trying to build a life while still figuring out how to get from one place to another.
An event I’d been excited about didn’t materialize. An apartment disappeared before I could see it. A dinner I’d looked forward to became a dinner for one. It was still wonderful, but still.
None of these things was a catastrophe. Together, though, they made the city feel less like possibility and more like hard work.
The comfort of the place I had so yearned to leave began to beckon me. I wanted to go home almost as much as I had wanted to leave.
Had coming here been the wrong decision?
Eventually, I booked a flight back to San Francisco. The return journey felt rather less glamorous. My entertainment screen wouldn’t work, and without moving pictures to distract my brain, I closed my eyes and simply breathed.
I missed driving with music playing and singing along. I missed familiar places, familiar company, and the feeling of knowing my way around.
New York had been kind to me, too. There were museum dates, wonderful performances, and dinners that reminded me why I’d wanted to come in the first place. There were lovely people.
But California is somehow buried deep in my bones. I hadn’t realized quite how deeply until I left.
Back in the Bay Area, I caught sight of houses glittering on the hills above the water and wondered how I could ever leave. A far cry from how I’d felt before going.
Will I try living somewhere else again? Perhaps. I still love the possibility of another chapter. But I’m beginning to appreciate that I don’t need to decide the whole story at once.
For now, I’m settling back in. Going to events, making room for writing, rediscovering my interests, and doing my best to savor the moment.
I tried New York, and I didn’t fail. I learned something about what I want, what I miss, and what makes a place feel like home.
I don’t claim to have a perfect definition of that word. But I do know that my heart, or a very big piece of it, happens to be here.
And that is something. <3
Thank you for reading my first blog post! Some future posts might be a little spicier, but after sharing my New York plans, I thought you might enjoy hearing how the adventure unfolded.
-Elise