A good friend once told me you have to go backwards to go forwards.
And I do think a lot of the answers are in the past.
Or at least the perspective I craved.
Being somewhere I lived for 8 years, I kept expecting to run into younger versions of me. Like we all still coexist there.
And on some level we do.
The me that consulted in midtown, I almost glimpsed her through the glass doors in her white Mad Men-esque suit.
The me who commuted to Times Square every morning for 3 years, I traced her footsteps into the subway of Wall Street.
The me who first moved to the city in 2000, I swear she was just across the street in Grammercy. I almost waved.
Each place invokes a memory, a time past. A me that once existed as surely as this one does right now.
And each version had her strengths and weaknesses. But she was there. Marking time and living a life.
The greatest blessing was my trifecta of friends (A, Z, and B). In their eyes, I saw who I had been. Who I still was to them. Who I could be again.
Lately, I feel like I’m stuck. Waiting. Like I hit the pause button and my life hasn’t restarted yet.
I want it to. I’ve given two years to the dream of writing. At the expense of everything else in my life.
At the time, it felt necessary. Required to be become a better writer.
But now. Things are shifting inside me.
I want more.
It doesn’t mean I’ll stop writing, but it means writing will be a priority. Not my only priority. And I think I’ll get closer to happy for it.