Winter break in college is always such an intense time for me. All my friends from college are going back to their hometowns, and I end up back in New York City.
I’m writing this in my bed in Trinidad, the country I was born in. Honestly, it would not be an exaggeration to say I ran away from the city for a little bit. Lately, I’ve been feeling all these weird emotions about New York, which is a brand new sensation for me. I still love the city, and that’ll never change. However, recently I’ve been feeling suffocated there, trapped even.
When I transferred to my new college, I did so specifically with the intent of leaving NYC. Last year, when I went to college in the city, I genuinely thought I lost my mind. There was something so visceral about constantly surrounded by some of my worst memories, and also some of my best. I was always so anxious. Despite having a dorm, I’d go home almost everyday after classes because the world just felt so overwhelming.
I recently had a conversation with one of my friends about not realizing how much I actually loved the city until I left. I still have a deep, deep love for New York City. I’ve met some of the most interesting people imaginable, and I’m privileged enough to call some of those people my best friends. I feel alive when I’m walking on 14th street running errands with one of my favorite people in the world. I still enjoy visiting my high school and spending hours catching up with my former teachers. NYC is an incredible place that is full of so much character and everlasting potential, and I am so aware of the privilege I have to be able to call it home.
I’ve been trying to figure out what exactly “home” means. My grandmother still refers to Trinidad as home, and I think I might share a similar sentiment. Since being here, I’ve realized I feel the most like myself when I’m here. Being surrounded by people that look, sound, and act like my family makes me feel like I’m home everywhere I go. But I also fully connect with the idea that NYC is home. It’s the only place where I feel like I have real purpose and meaning. I’m always inspired to be my best there.
I think “home” is a feeling. There have been so many moments in the city where I was with people I knew very well and still felt so unbelievably uncomfortable to the point that I would be on the verge of bursting into tears; there’s no way I could’ve been “home” in those instances. But there have also been moments where I am walking around the city running errands and I could genuinely kiss the sidewalk (gross) with how much joy and love and pride I feel to be able to have such an experience.
If “home” is a feeling, then I have to start putting myself in situations to always feel at home. I’m tired of longing to “go home.” Why can’t home just be wherever I choose to make it?
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