All of my New York City Apartments (Part 3)

After a decade of living in the city, I'm reflecting on all of the places I've called home.

Hi everyone! This is the FINAL installment of my New York apartments – I didn’t include the one I just moved into, since I’ve lived here for all of one week and haven’t been able to do much reflecting yet. I’ll continue telling stories and diving deep in all of the future newsletters, so don’t worry.

ALSO – I have a very special treat for paid subscribers. I’m planning on releasing my first podcast episode, and Jacob will be the first guest. We’re going to be talking about a bunch of things, including everything that’s mentioned in today’s post. If you’re not a paid subscriber, now is the time to upgrade. If not, we’ll see you next Wednesday!

Apartment #7 – Clinton Hill ($1,675)

I put my belongings in a storage container and moved back to my parent’s house with nothing but a suitcase and my dog. 

I joined the gym. I started therapy. I revisited things that I was hung up on. I reflected on myself more than I ever have in my life. I cooked dinner a few times a week, making a meal schedule with my newly retired parents. 

I looked for apartments every single day. I emailed countless agents, asked friends if they knew anyone subletting, and scoured the internet for listings. Day after day after day I came up empty handed. I knew I wanted to live alone, but I wasn’t making a ton of money – I simply couldn’t afford most of the studio apartments I was finding in Brooklyn.

One day, during my hours of aimless scrolling, I found an apartment listed for $1,675. Better yet, the apartment was a ten minute walk from where Megan was currently living and it was on a beautiful, historic block in Clinton Hill.

The listing had been up for all of five minutes when I emailed the agent. Can you come tour it now? he messaged back. I looked up from my phone and considered how quickly I could get from suburban New Jersey to Brooklyn, but I knew time was ticking. This apartment would be gone if I didn’t get someone there right now.

I called Megan and she left work immediately, running to the C train on a cold afternoon in March. We were texting each other frantically during slivers of service through the subway tunnels, giddy at the thought of living so close to each other again.

She showed up at the apartment with me on FaceTime, and we met a man named Shalom. We spent the next ten minutes charming him – her in person and me over the phone – and I sent in my application within the hour.

Getting approved for that apartment was one of the scariest and most exhilarating experiences of my life. 

Achieving a lifelong dream is not something that happens often. There are extraordinary moments – skydiving, having a child, graduating from college, going to Paris – peppered into one’s life and, if we’re lucky, we get a handful of them. Living alone was always a dream of mine, and it’s a dream that isn’t afforded to many New Yorkers. My 200 square foot apartment became my proudest accomplishment despite barely being able to pay rent each month, an invisible gold medal hung around my neck everywhere I went.

The day I got the keys was the same day I saw the apartment for the first time. It was pouring rain, but I walked around my new neighborhood for an hour, gawking at the huge, Victorian houses on Clinton Avenue. I ducked into a coffee shop that was tucked lovingly into the basement of a brownstone, and sat in the window seat as the rain fell. In that moment I knew, through the heartbreak, the pain, the joy, and all the places I had called home, this was always the path that was meant for me.

I moved in slowly but purposefully, finding pieces of furniture that fit the space like a puzzle. Soon enough I had turned a tiny, white box into something that looked an awful lot like a home. I bought things simply because they made me happy – a bright green coffee maker and bright green bistro table, a painting of a pink cowboy, a shower curtain covered in wildflowers. For the first time, my opinion was the only one that mattered.

I remember feeling surprised by how much I enjoyed being alone.

I was deep into the beginning weeks of therapy at that point, and unpacking my mind kept me busier than I expected. For the first time in my entire life, I had a hard time being around people. I felt completely raw at all times – a jumbled knot in my chest that I was attempting to untie – and isolating myself felt like the only thing that made sense.

But the building itself provided companionship in unexpected ways. Glenn, the building super, loved to chat while fixing a leak in the toilet. He’d tell me intricate stories about his childhood dog back home in Grenada – a German Shepherd named Hero who saved people from hurricanes and walked him to school every day. I also became friendly with people down the hall, including my beautiful neighbor Georgia who’d hug me every time we ran into each other, our dogs tussling at our feet.

In the background of all of this, of course, was the relationship that I had walked away from.

When we broke up, I truly never expected us to talk to each other again. He’d ask to talk on the phone, to meet in person. He sent the occasional text and a postcard from his trip to the Grand Canyon, but I didn’t answer. 

Cold, hard silence. No explanation for a heartbreak I didn’t quite understand myself.

But eventually, the knot began to loosen. I started to make sense of the storm in my mind. I could see myself so clearly – where I went wrong, and why I felt the way I felt. I studied my peaks and my valleys, and had a detailed map on how to get to the top of the trail.

After five months, I agreed to meet up with Jacob. I had a lot of things I wanted to say, and a lot of things I wanted to apologize for. We ended up talking for hours, reminding ourselves of all the reasons we had fallen in love in the first place.

My tiny apartment soon became the backdrop of our second chance.

The loveseat where we shared our first kiss, the farmer’s market down the street where he’d buy me flowers, the kitchen island filled with Chinese take out boxes and empty wine bottles. The same coffee shop I ducked into months before became our weekend coffee spot where we’d journal and chat about all of life’s happenings.

This time, it was right. It was honest, it was pure, it was gentle. 

We forgave, we loved. 

A year later, after countless hours of conversation and discussion, I emailed my landlord to tell him that I wouldn’t be renewing my lease. Giving up that apartment was the hardest choice yet, but I also knew that I had achieved what I set out to achieve.

I had healed myself and all the prickly parts that came with me.

On April 1st, the last mover left with my few remaining things. Jacob and I shared a kiss in my empty apartment, hope for the future bubbling between us. I left my keys on the kitchen counter and the door unlocked. We walked out together, holding hands.