Her collection of artfully curated photographs—a faded image of a vintage truck, a fox donned in a suit, and a striking black-and-white close-up of wheat—seemed to taunt me from the walls of her charming Brooklyn apartment. Each piece, accompanied by her impressive library of literary tomes and an assortment of vintage vinyl records resting against an old turntable, whispered a single, haunting message: “Look closely. This is the life you could have embraced.”
During a recent work trip, I strolled through the picturesque streets of Brooklyn with my high school friend, Clara, and her group. She passionately described the unique quirks of the neighborhood’s homes, restaurants, and architecture. Laughter echoed as they reminisced about adventures in various pubs and their favorite dining spots. It was hard to hide my envy.
Fifteen years ago, in my early twenties, I dreamed of moving to New York City without ever having seen it. The city beckoned to me like a moth to a flame. At the end of my college career in 2000, still residing in my Midwestern hometown, I disclosed to my then-boyfriend my plans to apply for an internship at CBS in New York after graduation. He was enthusiastic and applied as well. He got the position. I didn’t. But I ventured to New York that year regardless, caught between exhilaration and terror—my heels clacking painfully against the unforgiving sidewalks.
New York was everything I had fantasized about and infinitely more. Each trip left me enamored, envisioning where I might live, peering into apartment windows, thumbing through “For Rent” signs, and eavesdropping on subway conversations while scouring job listings. Yet, I never allowed myself to genuinely consider making the leap; a naive 23-year-old, I was far too frightened of failure.
Adoring New York felt akin to crushing on someone impossibly out of reach. The yearning was tormenting. Eventually, I started to dissect the downsides—sky-high costs, overcrowding, and an overwhelming sense of anonymity—convincing myself that perhaps it wasn’t meant for me after all, just to avoid the heartache of rejection. I rationalized that my youthful hopes were naive and that practicality should take precedence. Moving to New York seemed like a foolish notion.
Like that unattainable crush, I let New York fade from my consciousness. In the decade since my last visit, life unfolded: marriage, the abandonment of a career, raising two children, purchasing two homes, relocating to different cities, starting a second career, and now, navigating the aftermath of an abusive marriage. Meanwhile, Clara had been thriving in New York City since the very moment I chose to relinquish my dreams of living there. Over the last 15 years, she cultivated a successful career, surrounded herself with fascinating friends, and traveled the world. She sleeps every night nestled against my old infatuation, this vibrant city. Listening to her tales of urban life, it became evident that New York had become her partner, and their bond was deeply intimate. I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of jealousy.
During my two days with Clara, it felt like I had stepped into a modern-day rendition of It’s a Wonderful Life. I was confronted with the alternative narrative of a life I had forfeit, a life I might have embraced if only I hadn’t been paralyzed by fear. If only I hadn’t allowed my insecurities to dictate my choices, perhaps I would be in an artfully decorated Brooklyn apartment, antiquing in Connecticut on weekends, and embarking on business trips to China. Maybe I wouldn’t be facing a challenging divorce or raising a child alone.
Perhaps I wouldn’t have discovered that a broken heart is not the ultimate tragedy, but rather, a heart left unfulfilled is the true loss.
As we wandered through Brooklyn after an enjoyable dinner and drinks with her friends, I expressed my admiration for Clara’s life. She linked her arm through mine, and in our tipsy state, she confessed her own contentment while acknowledging a lingering void. We discussed the challenges of dating in a city like New York, where it can feel nearly impossible to find a compatible partner among millions. I hadn’t realized until that moment that I had spent the entire evening with three intelligent, attractive women in their late 30s, each of whom was still single. It seemed that New York had claimed everyone as its own, making the idea of finding new love less enticing.
The following day, as I strolled alone through the city during a break from my conference, I reflected on our lives—hers, mine, and the one I chose not to pursue. I opted to follow the direction that had the “go” signal at each intersection, wandering aimlessly for an hour while contemplating the choices we make and the paths we take. There wasn’t a sense of closure or complete acceptance at the end of my walk—just an understanding that we traverse the paths we dare to explore at any given moment. Perhaps it’s simply about recognizing the directions that signal “go.”
Finding joy along the journey is what truly matters. If you can look back and acknowledge that you did your best, and look ahead with a commitment to try again tomorrow, that is what counts—regardless of your zip code, relationship status, or how many carefully arranged photographs adorn your walls. Ultimately, it’s not about the walls or their locations, but rather the people you welcome within them and the love that persists when everything else fades away.
This article was originally published on September 19, 2015.
Summary
Emma Carter reflects on her past aspirations to live in New York City while visiting her friend Clara, who has built a fulfilling life in the city. As she grapples with her own choices and the life she could have had, she learns to appreciate the paths we take, emphasizing the importance of joy and connection over geographical locations or relationship status.
Keyphrase: rediscovering my passion for New York City
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