The carefully curated collection of photographs—a vintage truck in sepia tones, a fox wearing a suit, and a striking black and white image of a wheat sheaf—stare at me from the walls of Mia’s charming Brooklyn apartment. Each piece, alongside her impressive library of literary classics and an assortment of vintage records neatly positioned by an old turntable, sends a clear, unspoken message: Reflect deeply. This is the path you chose not to take.
During a recent business trip, I strolled through the picturesque streets of Mia’s Brooklyn neighborhood with her and her friends. She animatedly pointed out the unique architectural details, the vibrant restaurants, and the rich history embedded in the area. Laughter filled the air as they recounted tales of their shared experiences at various bars and eateries, sharing the best dishes and drinks to try. A wave of envy washed over me as I listened.
Fifteen years ago, in my early twenties, I longed to move to New York City without ever having seen it. The allure of the city was irresistible, like a dream I couldn’t shake. At the end of my college career in 2000, I expressed my desire to apply for an internship at CBS in New York to my then-boyfriend. We shared the same major, and he encouraged me to pursue it. He got the internship; I did not. The disappointment stung, but I ventured to New York that year regardless. I was swept up in a whirlwind of excitement, yet every step on the city’s unforgiving streets left me aching.
New York met my expectations and then some. I fell head over heels. Each visit had me wandering the streets, envisioning where I might live, poring over “For Rent” signs, and eavesdropping on subway conversations. However, I never allowed myself to take that leap. As a naive 23-year-old, fear held me back from pursuing what I truly wanted.
Loving New York was akin to having a crush on someone way out of my league. The longing was almost painful. Over time, I focused on the negatives—high costs, crowds, and a sense of isolation—convinced myself it wasn’t truly where I belonged, all to protect myself from potential heartache. I told myself that wanting to move to New York was a foolish whim, a childish fantasy.
Like that unattainable crush, I gradually forgot about the city. In the subsequent decade, I married, transitioned through careers, welcomed two children, purchased homes, and ultimately relocated to different cities. I became a writer and found myself starting anew after leaving an abusive relationship. Meanwhile, Mia had rooted herself in New York City since the year I gave up on that dream. Over the past 15 years, she built a thriving career, cultivated a network of fascinating friends, and traveled extensively. Listening to her recount her journey, it was evident that New York had become her intimate partner. I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy.
During my two days with Mia, I felt as though I was living in a modern-day reflection of “It’s a Wonderful Life.” I was confronted with an alternate reality—one I could have embraced had I not been paralyzed by my insecurities. If only I had been braver, I too might have found myself in a whimsically decorated Brooklyn apartment, spending weekends antiquing in Connecticut and enjoying business trips abroad. Perhaps I wouldn’t be navigating the challenges of a contentious divorce or single motherhood.
As I wandered Brooklyn with Mia after a delightful dinner, I expressed my admiration for her life. She linked her arm with mine, both of us slightly tipsy from cocktails. She confessed that while she loved her life, a piece felt missing. Her and her friends then shared how daunting it can be for individuals to connect in a city as vast as New York, where finding someone compatible among 13 million can seem impossibly challenging. I hadn’t realized it until that moment, but I’d spent the evening with three intelligent, attractive women in their late thirties, all of whom remained single. New York had captivated their hearts, leaving little room for new relationships.
The following day, as I strolled through the city alone during a break from my conference, I contemplated the lives we lead: hers, mine, and the one I didn’t choose. I followed the “go” signal at a traffic light, letting it guide my direction for an hour while I pondered the choices we make. I cannot claim to have achieved closure, nor can I say there was a complete absence of regret or an overwhelming sense of acceptance. Rather, I realized that we follow the paths we’re brave enough to take at any given moment. Perhaps it is merely about embracing the directions that provide us with a “go” signal.
Finding joy in our journeys is what truly matters. If you can look back and say you did your best, and look ahead with the intention to try again tomorrow, that is what counts—regardless of your location, relationship status, or the number of carefully arranged photos gracing your walls. Ultimately, it is not the walls or their addresses that define us but the people we invite into our lives and the love that endures when everything else fades.
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Summary
Reflecting on a past filled with dreams and unfulfilled aspirations, the author navigates the juxtaposition of her life choices against the backdrop of her friend’s successful and vibrant life in New York City. Through introspection, she recognizes the importance of embracing the paths we choose and finding joy in the journey, regardless of the outcomes. Ultimately, the essence of fulfillment lies not in our locations or circumstances, but in the connections we forge and the love we cultivate.
Keyphrase: New York City life choices
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