If you’ve spent any notable amount of time with me in the last 10 years, you’d know how I feel about New York.
It didn’t take long for me to fall and to fall hard.
A self-proclaimed Brooklyn-girl I’d quickly become, after dragging my suitcase between West Chelsea and East Williamsburg for six months.
Baby, I’d become elated to find any reason to be with you –
if just for a quick weekend
or half of a fashion week.
I’d cry on every car ride out of the city to the airport –
missing you before I’d even gone.
Back in California, I yearned to be reunited with you, my sweet babe… my darling New York…your streets I could not walk but only float down.
“All I want is a real NYC bagel,” I’d yearn.
“New York taught me how to be a strong-ass independent woman – full of pride and power – who don’t take not crap off of nobody,” I’d fondly reminisce.
“New York saved me,” I believed with such certainty.
And then it hit me, while walking through Central Park this week, recovering from one of the worst colds (#bronchitisEpiphany) I’ve experienced in years:
I love you New York, my sweet babe,
but you did not teach me how to be a strong-ass independent woman, full of pride & power.
You did not save me.
I did that.
Yes, I did that all by my damn self, playboy. Because I have been a strong-ass independent woman, full of pride & power for a long time before you and will continue to be after.
Your bagels certainly helped, but no amount of specialty carb can truly save someone.
That warmth and magic that I thought was all you, well it was actually coming from me.
So as I am grateful for what we shared and as I will always love you,
I’m not in love with you anymore, baby.
I’m actually finally falling in love with me. ✌
photo of a NYC photo in my California home, by my favorite photographer.