As the madness of finals week began last December, I remarked to a friend how thrilled I was to return home to New York City, since I’d recently fallen back in love with it. He was puzzled and asked how I fell back in love with a place that’s been my home for my whole life. It was a fair question; however, it led me to think about how I’d ever fallen out of love with New York City to begin with.
I don’t think it matters where someone comes from. You could be from the biggest, brightest city or the smallest, emptiest town; there comes a point when you’ve had enough—when all you long for is a change of pace and scenery. When I was 16 years old, I finally got to that point. Walking down Fifth Avenue no longer made me feel like a minuscule, but significant part of New York. It made me feel like a target for taxi drivers. I no longer felt the same optimism I did when I laid my eyes on the Empire State Building each morning. It became just another tall building in the background.
I was ready to leave. Yes, I was ready to leave New York City, the place where many dream of carving out a life. My senior year of high school was winding down and I kept having the recurring thought I simply did not belong. I used to sit at neon green tables in Union Square Park and envision a happier place if one existed. I could already sense that high school friendships were fleeting and some of them eventually did. I couldn’t see myself doing the same thing that I’d done for the last four years: ride the subway to school, walk down a busy avenue, count the tourist attractions I’ve never been to, and repeat.
I don’t go to college too far away from home; it’s far enough that it’s not the city and close enough that I could come home if I ever needed to. I vowed to only come home for breaks and I kept the promise. The first time I came home I looked at my dad and said, “Why am I back here?” as we drove on the West Side Highway. I did not suddenly miss where I came from like most people do when they’ve been away for a few months. In my short time at college, I’d already begun to make a name for myself. My interests, friends and eventually my job were at school and not at home.
When I began my sophomore year, my feelings began to change. Perhaps it was because when my freshman year ended, I went to my grandma’s house in Pennsylvania to work and then went straight back to school when my summer burned out. It was about six months of not stepping foot into the city, but with that came not seeing certain people that I soon realized I’d been taking for granted. You can have the best friends and times at college, but sometimes you just need a chocolate milkshake, fries, and your mom.
I decided to head home for a weekend and as my train pulled into Grand Central, I was not filled with the same annoyance that I once felt. Taylor Swift’s “State of Grace” blared through my earbuds, “And I never saw you coming/And I’ll never be the same.” I hadn’t heard words that so accurately articulated the sudden thoughts that I was having. As I made my way to the main concourse of Grand Central, I realized just how insignificant I was to New York and always had been. I also realized just how significant New York was to me and always had been.
Because I was dissatisfied with where I was from, it forced me to leave and come back better. I had fallen out of love with New York because I was not living on my own terms and under my own conditions. My time at college had enabled me to begin again. I was able to come home as a new version of myself that had never been introduced to the city before. I realized that I have my own skyscrapers to build, but New York City is the place I will start.
