10 months in new york

reflecting on 2025

I came during the coldest week of the year in February. The temperatures were in the teens and it was pitch black when I arrived in the evening. My gloveless hands fumbled with the lockbox, then the key of my sublet for minutes that felt like hours. Eventually, I made it into the lobby, where I could finally warm up. My next task was carrying two 50+ pound suitcases up five flights of stairs, and the strain made me wonder if my heart would explode. So began my life in New York.

When people told me “the first year in New York will be hard,” I didn’t believe them. Unlike the average person who would move to this city without doing their research and spending time in the city, I was convinced that I was different. As a realist and a planner, I would avoid all of the most common issues that other transplants faced. Having spent short stints in the city over the years, having read so many books set here, having a healthy set of expectations of the lows possible here, I thought it would be easy enough.

It hasn’t been as simple as I expected. A hard thing doesn’t transform into something easy through knowledge alone. Solitude, leaving your friends behind, adjusting to the seasons, being exposed to brand new situations in an unfamiliar place — these things don’t become easy, even if you expect them, even if you make all of the plans in the world to insulate yourself from them. Any one of them would be taxing, but they only seemed to build upon each other.

In the face of all of these hard things, what was most surprising was how the parts of myself that felt stable suddenly disappeared. Over the course of my twenties, I thought I had made huge strides in creating a stable sense of self that I could feel comfortable in. Disconnected from a strong support system, forced to live outside of my comfort zone, my confidence about my ability to socialize or to write seemed to evaporate. In a room full of strangers, I questioned my fashion sense, my worldliness, my haircut, my hands, my feet. In a room full of writers, I imagined myself the least accomplished and least well-read.

I was surrounded by more people than ever before, finally in the city that I thought would make me grow tremendously, and I felt more disconnected from myself than ever before. I had spent years in SF crafting a self that was confident and educated. Where had that person gone? Had he only been a reflection of my life in San Francisco, held together by my friends and environment?

Questioning everything, including the quality of my writing, I wrote less. Tired of what I saw of myself, I tried to find things to write about that had less to do with me — deep dives into art that I loved or pieces of theory that seemed much more interesting than I did. For the first time in several years, I started skipping my weekly newsletters semi-regularly, and then decided to shift to writing bi-weekly, hoping that having more time would help me to write things that I actually felt proud of.

Instead, the time went elsewhere. While my creative life was in flux, my work life became more stressful with increasingly demanding projects that barely interested me. In search of a change, I started looking for a new job, letting my free time get consumed by the endless task of organizing my portfolio and applying to jobs. Some days, I would finish work late into the evening, having spent the whole day at my desk, allow myself to do a workout, before returning to my desk to prepare for interviews.

My job search was all-consuming and unhealthy at times, but it was ultimately worth it — I landed a job offer at the beginning of December, and will start my new job in the New Year. On the other side of that stressful time period, I’m able to reflect on the rest of my year through rosier eyes: what a weird and wonderful year it has been.

The story of this year isn’t a depressing one. I moved to New York to grow and I got what I asked for. My life in San Francisco had become far too comfortable, and I knew that I wasn’t growing in the ways that I wanted to. The same people who intimidated me into insecurity also served as inspirations for my ambition. Surrounded by hard-working people across every profession and field, I couldn’t help but become more ambitious and work harder than I had before.

As uncomfortable as I felt in many social situations this year, I still showed up. I met a ton of new people, some of whom became my friends, while others disappeared into the night. I met writers and musicians and photographers and philosophers. I had conversations about books and films and birds and whales and leaves. And, at a random meetup for writers in my first few weeks here, I met a woman who also had moved to the city recently. We walked to the subway station together afterwards and talked about books we liked and wanted to read. A few weeks later, we started dating. Every difficult day became easier, every good day brighter.

The story of this year is a joyous one. I left behind a comfortable and wonderful life in San Francisco for an uncomfortable and wonderful life in New York. I describe the difference between life in SF and life in NY like this: every day in SF ranges from a 6 to an 8 out of 10, while every day in NY ranges from a 2 to an 11. The lows are low and the highs are so high, and nothing this year could’ve overshadowed the joys of seeing the autumnal leaves upstate with another or dancing into the night or foot-tapping to transcendent jazz or cheering on the NYC marathon. Nothing could overshadow the way the city inspires me to live a bigger life.

I didn’t figure it all out this year. Things were harder than expected. My identity crisis as a writer continues, and I’m still wracked by insecurity and doubt. But I grew in other ways while working through these emotions. This year was hard, and that made everything feel more worthwhile. Next year might be hard too, but I’m excited, knowing that there’s growth on the other side of it all.

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💧 Drops of the Week 💧

• ALBUM - Sakura by Susumu Yokota - great ambient record

• POEM - “Hagiography” by Whitney Rio-Ross - All divine whispers yield a curse.