A story of shifting dreams, small towns, and the slow life calling.
I was 17 when I got my first addicting taste of New York City.
I had recently watched the film adaptation of Rent and fallen hard — for the music, the message, the idea of grabbing life with both hands. I memorized every lyric, sang every word out loud, and became consumed with the urgency of living fully. For my birthday that year, my parents took me to New York to see Rent in its original theater. We stayed with cousins in Staten Island and spent a couple of unforgettable days in the city. Not only was I mesmerized by the show — the city itself got its hooks in me. It became my new obsession.
For years, I was absolutely enchanted by New York. The lights, the movement, the sense that something was always happening. I remember standing in the middle of Times Square at 17, buzzing with life, and telling my dad: “I’ve never felt so alive.” That moment stuck with me. And for a long time, I thought I was meant to be there.
The dream of living in New York followed me through my teens and early twenties. I imagined a tiny studio apartment, success on my own terms, and the thrill of being one of the thousands swept up in the city’s current. I even made it back a few more times — for BEA, for the Rachael Ray show — always feeling that familiar electric charge. For a while, I really thought I’d get there.
But somewhere along the line, everything shifted.
I still love New York. Still feel that spark when I think about it. But these days, the version of life that I crave looks entirely different. Now, even my suburban hometown of 95,000 feels too crowded. I find myself longing for quiet. For stillness. For a life with fewer sirens and more silence.
The things I want have changed.
I used to want the hustle. The skyline. The noise and possibility. Now I want slower days. My family. My books. A kitchen big enough to cook in. A porch with space to sit and breathe. Dogs in the yard, laughter in the background, quiet evenings where nothing is urgent.
I want a big old farmhouse with charm and history. I want grocery clerks who know my name and neighbors who wave when they pass by. I want wide open spaces, dark skies with fireflies, and nights quiet enough to hear cicadas sing. I want to sit outside and read while the world softens around me.
I want the kind of place where Caleb can run barefoot through the grass, where his laughter carries across open fields. I want to sip my Diet Coke from a sweating glass while rocking slowly on the porch, book in my lap, the sun dipping low in the distance. I want the background noise to be birdsong and breeze — not traffic. I want to look out and feel calm instead of crowded. I want to feel like I belong to the place I’m in.
I’ve never left my hometown — not really — but lately I think about it constantly. Not to escape, but to find something better suited to who I’ve become. There’s a small town about thirty minutes away that’s been calling to me. Close enough to stay connected to what matters, but far enough to breathe a little deeper. To stop feeling like I’m running in place all the time.
The thought of leaving the only place I’ve ever known is daunting. But the thought of staying stuck in a life that no longer fits? That’s harder.
The more I imagine it — that porch, that quiet, that shift — the more convinced I am: this is the life I want. I feel it in my bones. And I’m no longer waiting for permission to go find it.
Some dreams fade. Some evolve. And some… you chase until they lead you home.
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