I spent my last residential day in New York City going over my old stomping grounds—the neighborhoods where my high school was, my college, and Union Square where I often hang out with friends. The ground was good and solid underneath my feet, and the gravity of my incoming move is starting to slowly hit me.
This time tomorrow I’ll be on a plane, more than halfway to my new home known as San Francisco, California. It’s a big—no, ginormous—change. And I’m still not quite sure I’m ready for it, but I’m not one to dwell on the whole “readiness” thing. I’m a firm believer in taking chances and not having any regrets because I didn’t go and try something.
My family has been adamantly telling me that I “can’t go,” and honestly the more they say it the more I want to leave. Not because I don’t love my family, I of course love them dearly. It’s more because I’m itching to start something fresh and new. I’m looking forward to a nice, clean slate. A new city to explore, new people to meet, and the adventure of figuring out life on my own for the first time. (Well, okay, not entirely on my own. Louie will be with me. I’m actually very glad I’m not completely on my own and couldn’t ask for a better boyfriend to be at my side.)
Adieu, New York. I love you and will miss you, don’t change too much.