Small Adventures

Cities don’t change. We return different

New York State of Mind

Cities don’t change. We return different

New York City. I was seventeen the first time I visited. A whirlwind weekend with my mom, newly single and, to me, surprisingly liberated and hopeful. I didn’t know it then, but that trip would shape me in ways I wouldn’t understand until much later.

New York hits you in the face with its vibrancy. It shook me out of the fog I’d been living in after my parents’ sudden separation. I remember racing through the city in my “cool” Soho t-shirt, clutching my mom’s handwritten must-see list like a treasured map. Russian Tea Room. Greenwich Village. Fifth Avenue.

We walked fast. We breathed fast. For the first time in a long time, I felt alive.

It’s funny to realize she was much younger than I am now. A woman with her whole life ahead of her, refusing to let regret shape her next chapter.

Flash forward to today. A similar pull of sadness, but for entirely different reasons. I thought I’d landed my dream job, only to have it yanked away in a parking lot in Costa Mesa. My much younger creative director asked if I wanted to “grab a coffee”.  I thought it was a check-in. Instead, with a flat tone and the slightest smirk, she told me I was done — right there, feet from my coworkers.

Gut punch. Shock. Humiliation. The quiet grief of feeling unseen and discarded.

Then came the deeper loss. Chloe.

My tiny Shipoo, my shadow, my comfort for nearly seventeen years. She carried me through some of the worst moments of my life. Losing her two months after losing my job nearly broke me.

So, when I landed in New York again, this time with my daughter, I didn’t expect the city to do what it did when I was seventeen. But somehow, it did. It shook me awake again.

Cities don’t change. We return different.

Our first night, my daughter and I had drinks on a rooftop bar. The city stretched out around us. Twinkly lights, loud horns, endless possibility. I remember looking at her. Really seeing her.  And thinking, wow… I’m in New York with my daughter on her business trip.

When I was her age, I was waiting tables and trying to snag a role in some low-budget student film. She was orchestrating a pop-up in the West Village for a real start-up. I didn’t want to miss that moment. I was a proud mama bear, for sure.

The last day of our stay, my daughter sent me to the meat packing district for a delivery of their product. During my Uber ride, I soaked in the beauty of the West Village morphing into that part of town. Murals everywhere, gardens in full bloom, and the stunning High Line took my breath away.

Once I found the right door, I wrangled those drinks up to a promising funder. After a successful delivery, I found myself stuck on that floor. The elevator had no visible buttons. And no stairwell to be found. My face went bright red as I literally called out for help and got no response whatsoever. Remote work is real!

I stood there frozen. No buttons. No way down. No one answering. This feels familiar.

I panicked for a second. Then I took a breath.

I figured I’d find a way out.And somehow… I did.

I’d visited New York many times in the years between. Grad school. Romantic trips. Birthdays. But this time gave me the same jolt I felt that first visit: open, receptive… alive. This time, I was broken in a different way. Older, yes — but still vulnerable to the kind of sudden change that knocks you sideways. The kind that dulls your senses and slows your brain. Where even simple decisions feel heavy.

Sometimes you lose what you thought you needed… and it clears space for what actually matters.

So here I am. Starting over. A little scared, yes. But awake again.