I’ve been a native New Yorker for 36 years. I was born in Queens. We spent endless amounts of time outside during my childhood, running up and down the block. I rarely left the confines of my street. All my friends lived there, so our parents could keep a watchful eye on us. My neighborhood felt safe and familiar. Everyone had a place in our community. But I wondered about life outside the safety of my bubble. There were four other boroughs besides my own. Manhattan intrigued me the most.

Growing up, I romanticized the borough as if it were a movie. The area captivated my senses in every way. I wanted to go to “the city,” as everyone called it. My daydreaming fantasies yearned to be part of that world. My love affair with this urban paradise started when I went with my aunt for “Take-Your-Kid-to-Work Day”. The world outside my comfort zone seemed exciting. I took the subway for the first time, ate meals with her and her colleagues, and got to experience life outside of what I knew. People worked and played in this new world, and I enjoyed taking it in as a tiny spectator. New York offered a lot of beauty and promise to a rose-colored perspective.

At 18 years old, I finally got to live my dreams because of my first job! I took a position in Midtown at a doctor’s office. The first weeks were new and satisfying. It felt good to live the lifestyle I desired since childhood. I formed bonds with colleagues, enjoyed tourist sites on my lunch hour, and got my first taste of the freedom of adult money. At that age, it seemed to be the most exciting opportunity. The perceived independence and first taste of a salary had me floating on air. I had granted my childish heart’s wish.

But the proverbial wool lifted from over my eyes rather quickly. The island’s overcrowding got old fast. Long commutes, stuffed subways, and excited tourists were all glaring inconveniences now. The daily exposure to these things took the magic away from them. Manhattan no longer appeared to be a playground with endless possibilities; it became a priority. The spell broke, and the magic faded. I didn’t want to work and play here. My new perspective felt sad to carry. I missed the jovial feelings I used to have, but circumstances bled them dry.

Despite my disillusionment, I continued to commute into the city. My exhaustion reached for nostalgia like a life raft just offshore. Sometimes I received that life raft as a reminder of why I had fallen for the Big Apple — a walk through Times Square at night after a lavish dinner to see the lights, or playing softball under the Central Park skyline. As a lifelong athlete, I stood in awe while at bat with the perfect view of the skyline. Those moments were the jolts I needed to remember the wonder I had left behind in childhood.

It’s easy to get lost in environmental annoyances and forget the path to the present. But I learned that a true, lasting connection to a place didn’t mean constant joy. The connection meant staying, adapting, and rediscovering. Despite the flaws and fatigue, I remained a moth to a flame in this beautiful chaos. I found beautiful moments that allowed me to meet New York where it was. It was a quiet glance between two strangers on the train after a tiring day, lulled to rest by the sound of the street performer’s song outside the subway car. I observed it in the way the skyline glowed during my worst moments. It said, “You are still here. So am I.”