The morning I landed from my San Diego Redeye flight, I stepped outside, took one sip of this stinky, humid, hot NYC summer air and immediately wanted to vomit. As I dragged my suitcase along the terminal pathway, all kinds of “Welcome to New York, the greatest city on earth!” signs annoyed the freakin life outta me. I was instantly homesick, felt like part of me died in San Diego with the palm trees and beach sunset.
Ay~, I sighed to myself, back to the shithole where dreams come true again. I’ve lived here for the past three years, become addicted to quinoa, kale, and $10 cold pressed juice. I learned how to stand in a moving subway without holding onto anything, and got super into fitness classes. I don’t take bullshit, get really impatient when waiting, and constantly live in the anxiety of not doing enough with my 20s.
Don’t get me wrong, I totally love New York. The city has given me some of the best experiences of my life, really shaped me into who I am today. But I also hate it with a burning passion, and can’t leave it, it’s like an abusive relationship.
So that whole day I kept asking myself one question: “Do I really want to live here?” The answer remains a mystery. One thing I do know though, is that even after all the shit show this city has given me, I never once regretted the decision of moving here. Given that my personality evolves around forcing myself out of my comfort zone, this city is definitely an inevitable stop in life.
That sounded like sarcasm, but it really wasn’t. After all the indignation, excitement, and struggles, I actually feel grateful.
Sorry for dropping the S bomb so many times in this.