I was instantly transported to the late 1990’s when I found myself standing on the corner of Mulberry and Bleeker during a visit to New York City a few years ago – the location of my very first apartment in the city – where it all began. It was located on the edge of the hip East Village, down the street from charming Little Italy and across Houston Street from glamorous SoHo. Although it had been over twenty years since I’d lived there and my building had been knocked down leaving a messy construction zone, the feelings came flooding back to me – when I was a scared but optimistic 26-year-old on the cusp of all I hoped my life could be.
I had moved there alone from North Carolina, leaving behind my family, on-and-off boyfriend, close friends and wonderful roommates. I had always felt New York was my heart’s home. Perhaps it was growing up in New Jersey until I moved south at 14, and going into the city often for visits and shows. Or it may have been the endless energy and excitement there that made me feel alive and that absolutely anything was possible.
My company at the time wanted me to move from Raleigh, North Carolina to Atlanta, Georgia and I had a lucrative marketing job and full relocation package waiting for me. Atlanta would have been a seamless and natural move – an easy drive from Raleigh, familiar people, and similar life to what I’d known since I’d graduated college but in a bigger city. My friends, family and boyfriend could easily drive down for a weekend, and I could hop in my car and zip home often.
But it just didn’t feel right, even though all the pieces were in place before me. I knew in my core and with every bone in my body that if I went down this road, I would have deep regrets. I felt with absolute certainty that I needed to live in New York while I was young and single. It was a dream so crystal clear to me, it was almost a reality before it ever began. I feared if I didn’t go then, I would wake up at 40 and find myself devastated that I missed out on a profound life experience.
So, for better or worse, I turned down the Atlanta promotion. I found a job in New York and an apartment through a friend of a friend who needed a roommate with plans to arrive in late October. Leading up the move, my emotions were a whirlwind and I would find myself bursting into tears during a manicure or on the way to the airport for interviews. I was excited but honestly truly terrified and constantly second guessing my decision.
I travelled the 10 hours to New York in a U Haul truck with my dad. As we left my red brick Raleigh townhouse to begin the journey, I turned around from the passenger seat to wave one last time to my boyfriend who was standing stoically in the middle of the road, watching me drive away to my new life.
After the move was done and my dad left to return to North Carolina, I was in tears surrounded by cardboard boxes in my depressing new living room until the afternoon turned to night. I had a few friends in the city who I could see for brunch or drinks or a shopping day, but I didn’t have my closest friends – not yet. I kept telling myself to take it one day at a time – that I would soon find my feet. No one ever said living in New York was easy, and my experience was no exception, especially at first.
My apartment was tiny, my roommate was mean, and my first job was on a gritty street and nothing like what I wanted. There were no glistening high rises in sight. There was a cold rain almost every day my first two months. I thought many times of getting on a plane back home to the lovely, familiar – and easier – south. I told myself to give it time. My southern life was always there if I wanted it, but there was a reason I was restless, and I needed to trust myself.
During these tough months, I realized what my ideal New York experience would look like. I would sometimes go sit on a bench in the middle of midtown, looking up to the sky at the towering buildings, and watching all the world dash by in a hurry. I knew I wanted to be a part of it all. After attending a party on the Upper West Side one night, I found myself thinking about that lovely and quiet neighborhood with trees everywhere, with its parks and gorgeous brownstones. And when I thought of what I desperately missed so much about my life in Raleigh, I realized it was my close-knit community of friends and family.
It was three months after arriving, on a work trip to Miami enjoying some much-needed sunshine, that I found out that I got the coveted job I had been interviewing for at one of the country’s top advertising agencies. It happened to be in midtown on the 47th floor of one of those very high rises I admired.
It was just one month after starting that job that I was invited to go along on a weekend ski trip with a group of my fun new coworkers. I made a friend on the drive north who seemed like a long-lost soul sister. We didn’t stop talking the entire ride to the mountain.
And six months after that, me and that wonderful new friend decided to be roommates and found an adorable and quirky apartment in a brownstone by the park on the Upper West Side with big windows overlooking a garden.
My years in New York after that were extraordinary – all I envisioned and so much more. I’m ever thankful that I trusted my instincts to make the move, even when it seemed my choices didn’t quite make sense. For me, age 26 was the perfect time to discover the life I had imagined.
I took a chance. And that, dear friends, is where the magic happens. Listen to your inner voice. It often knows best. ❤️