Two Bags and A Dream: Moving to NYC

Photos by Marques Jackson.

When my dog died, I knew it was time to go. I’d been living in limbo for over a year, staying with family in St. Louis while freelance writing, caring for my dog, and also helping with my almost 100-year-old grandma. My grandma passed. I was dealing with difficult living situations, tiptoing around family members suffering from mental illness. I felt gripped by old demons, and slid back into drinking. I went through a breakup, lost my car, and my dog, despite all the surgeries and treatments, died. I was left with a heap of vet bills and was working part-time for a job that didn’t pay. Just when it didn’t seem like it could get any worse, I lost my freelance writing job.

Things were bleak. I felt like a walking country song. Of all the genres, I never got into country music. It was time to move. NYC was calling.

I’d been in love with NYC ever since a journalism field trip in college, which made me question my previous Chicago infatuation. This was real love. On my first trip to NYC, looking up at buildings for as far as the eye could see, flying over the Brooklyn Bridge in a yellow cab, I was exhilarated. Surrounded by sights and sounds. Honking, yelling, laughing, smiling, screaming, screeching, crying, living. I felt at home in New York. Not so weird, not so stuck in my head, not so lost. The city suited me. NYC’s energy stuck with me for years, until I finally made it back.

People said I wouldn’t make it in NYC, that I could barely get by in St. Louis. But I felt I’d be fine. Although I was depressed, I knew there was hope for change in NYC. Not just a change in place, but in mindset. A stronger, freer me awaited.

And I really had nothing to lose. So I sold the furniture I’d had from my previous life as a journalist in Atlanta. My dad, with his compassionate soul, bought half of my things, including a sound system and other objects I’m sure he didn’t need. He sat with me out in the garage one cold Saturday morning as I took a Sharpie and marked prices on almost everything I owned — a Japanese style Ikea floor bed, lamps, CDs, and outdated stereos. And as I tallied up the cash, while still listing things on Craigslist, my dad quietly said he’d like to buy my speakers. That was all I needed. More than the cash, he believed in me. In his usual quiet way, he showed in his actions that he believed in the good in people. He was putting faith in a better future me, in my dream.

Shortly after that, I took two bags of clothes and moved to NYC. It was January 3, 2012. I had writing job interviews lined up, including at the Huffington Post, and a friend of a friend who needed a roommate in Washington Heights. I had just enough money for my first month’s rent.

Now, as I approach my 7-year NYC anniversary, I can say it’s been much more difficult than I anticipated. And I worked harder than I ever have, had more jobs, had more roommates, and moved more than my whole life leading up to NYC. But I’ve also grown more, risked more, built the small blog that I’d started in St. Louis while living in my parents’ basement into a full-time business. I’ve met so many interesting people from around the world. Renewed my passport and been able to travel abroad again. I ran the NYC Marathon, and got to blog about it for Runner’s World.

And as I sit in my Brooklyn apartment, preparing for a busy day of business running around the city, doing something I love, I’d like to thank my dad. For believing in me, for always seeing the potential in people and finding the good, even when we can’t see it well ourselves.