To Be a Part of It

My first week in a new place.

After months of saying I was going to do it, I finally did.

Last week I got on a one way flight to New York, hopped in an Uber who couldn’t have imagined the weight of the situation to me, and moved into a small room with one window. Leaving is a weird thing, especially when what’s ahead is so unknown.

All of it felt surreal, like I was sleepwalking through a life that wasn’t mine. As if I had really put someone else’s shoes on and begun to live in a way I had never known.

It’s been a few days and the month I spent at home seems so far away. All the counting down and sleeping in and post-dinner walks and late breakfasts and reading and packing seem like a lifetime ago. It was a very simple and slow way of life. I grew comfortable quick between the walls of the home I grew up in. I can’t remember the last time I was home for that long. The trees were lush and full and the thick southern air reminded me of the sacred summers I always awaited anxiously as a child.

I was reminded of the girl I was and felt proud of who she had become. If she had known what was ahead, I’m not sure if she would ever be able to sleep at night, anxious to see the day I move to New York really come.

And it did.

I am now sitting somewhere off 109th street way up in the west side of Manhattan. I look out to the Hudson past Riverside Park. The trees twist and stretch towards the sunlight, leaves hugging together casting cool shade on those walking beneath.

When I’ve taken the train across town, I look down the streets and at the people across from me and at the buildings and feel shocked at how normal it feels: to really be here, as an active member of the current running through the city.