It wasn’t until 1995 – the beginning part of my senior year of college – that I first had the idea that I would move to New York.  Once the thought crossed my mind, it seemed inevitable, and I never doubted it was where I wanted to be.  I often joke that I foolishly followed a boy here.  It could be a true story – I was dating someone from New York (but not the city – a world away in Long Island), and I easily could have been swayed by his suggestions that I come to New York.  But while it is an easy, self-deprecating version of the story, it never, never, deep down, was that.  We were in the house I lived in on 35th & O in DC, waiting to watch the OJ Simpson verdict.  We had been talking about a girl he dated before me who lived in Manhattan and he said “I know she will be really successful one day.”  I remained totally silent, not really knowing how to respond to the statement since I didn’t even know her.  I instantly felt like I had something to prove, although he had not suggested that I would not be successful.  But in that instant, for all my lack of self awareness in 1995 (and generally the surrounding time period from 1992-1997.5), I knew that I wanted to prove to myself that I could be successful and that I could figure out what that meant to me.  It wasn’t just a gut feeling, but a visceral thought, and I knew I’d be calling New York my home less than a year later.  While it sounds like 20-20 hindsight, I knew I’d find myself (literally and figuratively) in this City.

So in August 1996, I arrived.  Two friends from college helped me drive my stuff up in a U-haul (which they drove – not me – since I was drugged on Vicadone pills my mom had given me for my sore back after backpacking Europe — famous last words, “Take two, they aren’t strong”, from my mom).  My “stuff” consisted of lots of books, journals, the same 32-ounce Georgetown cup I drink from today, and a futon.  We carried the stuff up 17 flights of stairs in NYU graduate housing when the elevator broke and we just wanted to be done.  They stayed the night, and the next day I officially knew two people in New York – my uncle’s best friend who worked near Wall Street, and one friend from college.  I had a roommate who was never there and never ate, and who looked down on everyone around her (me included). I made friends with two dental students and two people getting a master in public health, one of whom was also a former swimmer.  I had no clue what lay in front of me or how to navigate my way.  My proudest moments were when strangers stopped me to ask for directions, since I felt that I must appear to be confident and know where I was going even when I didn’t.

I was lonely. I didn’t feel connected to the people I met in my own master’s program.  I felt restless and clueless.  I didn’t know how to enjoy the city.  My brightest moments were eating at a diner on 23rd & 2nd, with my college friend commiserating about our $6/day food budget or my new “grad dorm” friends after a late night out.  I thought I’d be here for five years, then move back to California — I couldn’t fathom the restless feeling would last longer than that and surely by the time I was 27, I’d have everything figured out.  Meaning, I’d have a job I liked. I’d move up the ladder at whatever job it was, or I’d work for myself.  I’d figure out a way to lateral it over to California, and life would be golden. I – literally – had no more specific thoughts or plans than that, and even that was more amorphous than I suggest now (and made little sense, given that I was getting a 2-year Masters degree in a field I already doubted I wanted to enter).

A year passed, and I started coaching the NYU women’s swim team as one of two assistants.  I moved in with that swimmer I met getting her masters, who still holds the reign as my best roommate ever (Derek doesn’t even come close).  I walked the streets of New York. I rode every subway line there was at the time. I went to baseball games, I went dancing, I listened to live music. I laid in Central Park on hot days and walked around Union Square Park every day.  I attended random workshops at random schools, and had stories to tell. I traveled to Hoboken for fun and realized I preferred the City.  I got my eyebrows waxed for the first time (it should have happened years before!).  I went hiking on weekend trips “upstate” (or 20 minutes outside the City).  Another year passed, I moved into a loft in Tribeca with the other assistant coach.  And 6 other people, including a dancer for the NYC ballet.  I started to create a family of friends who became family. I was introduced to Derek, and thought he was a nice, nice guy, but didn’t see that going anywhere. But man was he nice. Another year passed, and another year.  And another.  I had a friend I considered a sister.  I lived all over the city, I had traditions with friends on Thanksgiving and on the day of the NYC Marathon.  I suddenly didn’t cry every day of summer, but felt more attractive in the humidity that leveled all playing fields.  We all sweat! I got used to the smell of trash, and the stagnant air in the concrete jungle. I loved small restaurants and I hated the Tex-Mex Mexican food options. I went dancing, I saw the sun rise, I stayed in and read books, I ran all over – by the rivers, in the parks, on tracks. I didn’t feel lonely, I felt connected. I coached swimming, I taught gym (aka Physical Education, or “Recreational Arts” for those really in the know), I coached volleyball and basketball (without knowing much about basketball other than to dribble and shoot) and track. I met more acquaintances, deepened my friendships. I introduced friends to people they would marry. I lived in Manhattan. I lived in the Bronx. I worked in Brookyn and Staten Island.  I went to law school in Queens and had freedoms I’d never again have.  I had de ja vues when I was doing new things, but felt closer to myself than ever before.

The city was my city, and then I thought ‘I’m ready to leave’. I left, I came back. I couldn’t stay away. I missed the smell of garbage! The hustle and bustle! The Thai food.  The opportunity.  It is then — Then! — I found Brooklyn.  In May 2005, I came to look at condos to buy with Derek, and as soon as I walked the streets of Prospect Heights I knew I’d live here. The wide, gray, cracked sidewalks, lined with lush green trees.  The brownstones and limestones and stones of all different color, smashed together with people of all different color.  Offering the best of Manhattan, escaping the worst of it.  I walked from our condo at Classon & Prospect down to Underhill & Prospect — before this walk would be one I did 11 times a day with 3 kids — and I thought “This is perfect.”  This is me.  This is where I belong.

I bought the condo.  I bought our home.  And this – here, at this home, in this neighborhood – is where I found my dream job. And then a better one.  Where I realized how much I loved my family and friends and NYC friends who were family. And kept going with the traditions so long ago set, still going to ESPN Zone for Thanksgiving meal and to watch the NYC Marathon on 4th Avenue.  And made new friends. And had heartbreaks that I would never, never, never imagine I would have.  It is where my children were conceived and raised (and born across the river at St. Vincents).  It is where I learned what it felt like to hold a 2 pound baby and then, seemingly days later, three 30-pound babies at once.  It was where I felt loved. It is where my heart broke and my first dog died in the backseat of the car, on the way to the vet.  It is where my heart shattered and I lost my closest, dearest, best friend – my friend that was more of a sister – to cancer.  It is where I explained the phenomenon of tears of happiness, and felt their sweetness.  It is where I watched other friends move away, and leave a city that had given all it had given me and then some. It is where I became a mom and a partner to my kids – in crime, in life.

This neighborhood has been my soul mate. It wraps me up and gives me life when I most need to feel everything around me, and gives me solitude when I need to sit with my own mind with just enough white noise behind me.  It accepts and reflects all the contradictions that are me, that I didn’t know existed in 1995 but that I am really glad I discovered.  It has space for those contradictions.

Did I prove what I set out to prove? I certainly feel like I understand better the idea of success.  It has more to do with acceptance, and authenticity, and challenge than the version of it I had started to envision in 1995.  Not to mention living up to the standards that the little beings that carry my heart around deserve – being present for them, understanding myself so I can help them understand themselves.  But it also entails chasing your dreams and trusting your gut, even when you don’t know what those dreams exactly are.  Had I stopped to figure out what the dream was, instead of moving forward on hunches, I never would have landed here.

Have I been successful? I’m not sure, but I don’t feel like I have anything to prove anymore.  The feeling of success comes in small moments.  Having my family enjoy listening to me while I’m on a work call, asserting different sides of me that don’t come out at home every day. Getting hit on by a good looking swinger dad at Union Square Park (I didn’t take him up on the offer – but the fact that he was interested despite the three wild kids hanging off my stained and ragged clothes was success enough!).  Hearing my son tell my daughter, “It’s okay to be sad and cry if your heart feels heavy, but not if you want another cookie”.  Hearing him say his small daily dreams come true sometimes. Running, in a race or not, fast.  Teaching kids to play soccer, basketball, and the ever glorious game of dodgeball, including on a dirt field outside of the Brooklyn Courthouses on a 95+ degree day (wrapped in humidity) while the 3rd grade girls were more interested in figuring out if the 6’3 spectator in a dress was a man or a woman.  Sitting in a boardroom named after George Halas, founder of the glorious Chicago Bears, contributing to discussions on the business of football and game footage and licensing agreements and congressional hearings and player suspensions and watching a senior attorney demonstrate to the packed room what it meant to “make it rain”. Getting Gemma help I know she needs but was initially denied.  Crying because I’ve lost people I felt connected to, but being so grateful for the connection despite it.  Giving birth to three feisty, strong kids.  Getting three feisty, strong kids where they need to go each day (or most days).  Letting my friends help me.  Letting my family help me.  Laughing with my mom and sister on a bike carriage in New Orleans. Loving the Red Wedge Tom shoes I put on every day, each day like I found them for the first time. Having a one night stand.  Having a 16-year-and-counting stand.  Traveling to far away places, and nearby places, and learning what it feels like to be in those places. Doing a triathlon with absolutely no training.  Doing one wearing an extra pair of pants without even realizing it.  Doing a half marathon with lots more training.  Taking a dance class.  Doing Capoeira.  Drinking a glass of sangria while I walked two colicky babies for three hours every other night during the summer of 2009 and, despite the walks not stopping the crying for five minutes, not losing my mind, thanks to the Sangria.  Being unafraid to order a sundae every time – every time – I go to my favorite ice cream shop. Watching my daughters jump in the Cherry Blossoms at the Brooklyn Museum.  Looking at the Brooklyn Museum. Knowing the words to Liberian Girl just to make one little boy happy. Walking into a meeting with an owner of NFL football teams less than two hours after I cleaned pee from two wet beds and carried a screaming 2 1/2 year old to school, dragging her sister alongside, with tears running down my own cheeks (my kids aren’t light, and they have amazing lung capacities).  Going to Pro Bowl with my dad.  Finding more money in my kids piggy banks than I had in my checking account in 1998 (seriously, we just emptied the banks, and there was a $20 bill in Gemma’s – certainly pushing her past anything I had in the local credit union in second year here in the City!).  Naively thinking $400 would cover dinner and drinks for four at Chanterelle, so spending nearly $400 on drinks alone (and Derek and I really don’t drink….really.  Or Derek doesn’t).  Seeing Stevie Wonder play at the Apollo (and successfully keeping the tickets a surprise until we arrived at The Apollo!).  Giving my son the chance to meet The Jacksons.  Giving my daughters space to become the jokesters they are.  And finally, 17 years later, being brave enough to leave this city I love to follow an opportunity that doesn’t come up every day, or every lifetime, because my gut tells me I shouldn’t let the opportunity pass.

But the thing is — I’m not really leaving this city. This is what I’m taking with me.