Boston

When he came over that morning to talk about our issues, it became clear to me that it wasn’t about something I specifically did or something he specifically did.

He missed his friend and he didn’t know where she was.

I cried that morning, the first time I had cried in front of another human in a long time, because I didn’t know where she was either.

And I missed her too.

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I moved to Boston nearly four years ago. I was 25 at the time, accomplishing my lifelong dream. I was seemingly the best I had ever been — while simultaneously the most broken.

I was broken in a lot of ways, for a lot of reasons. But, as it often does, it came down to one thing — one person.

Me.

Toward the end of my collegiate career, I developed massive anxiety about what I was doing with my life. I strived to build the perfect personal brand, the perfect resume, and worked myself into the ground to beef up my experience after years of “not caring”.

I became obsessive. Trying to perfect all areas of my life. My schedule. My routine. My finances. My work.

My body.

I became obsessive in the pursuit, and killed myself along the way.

And while I am now hyper-aware of my old tendencies, at the time, I didn’t realize what was happening until I was in the middle of it.

I didn’t realize until it was too late to get out, or at least, that’s what it felt like.

I was lost. Unable to live in a world where everything wasn’t perfectly planned, measured, and optimized.

Unable to enjoy the small things in life that used to bring me so much joy — things as simple as grabbing a pizza with a friend or a drink with co-workers. With the boom of social media and my love for writing, sharing, and design— I had the biggest dreams, but for all the wrong reasons — and it felt like I was never going to get there. I hated myself in every way — my body, my big dreams, my need to schedule. I began to loathe my passion for writing and wanting big things for myself rather than enjoy it, because at the time it felt shallow somehow — ungrateful in some way. I slowly lost my ability to see the possibility in life.

I lost my passion. And I beat myself up as I tried to figure out how I got there — how I got to be that way.

What I am articulating in the most dramatic of ways, is that I was a lost new “adult” — confused as hell with no direction in sight.

Except Boston.

I had known since I was 14 that I wanted to live in the city. I wanted to live on a certain street in Back Bay. I wanted to have my perfect apartment. I wanted to walk down the street with my coffee in hand.

I always thought that the day I was riding the T with my Dunkin cup on my way to work was the day I had made it.

And, through all of my inner demons and insecurities, I made the move happen. I made the apartment happen. I really, made it all happen.

I thought I would be in a better place in my life when it all unfolded — more confident, more sure of myself — but I did it just the same.

As I was a shell of myself at the time, a large part of me thought that Boston was what I needed. I truly believed that this big move and change was going to “fix” me.

But it didn’t.

And what I realized, after a lot of hard work, failures, and almost 3 years in the city, was that nothing external was going to fix me.

I was.

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When I first moved to Boston, I moved in with a friend from college. I slept on his couch for about 5 or 6 weeks while I found my own place and got my bearings. He hadn’t seen me since my earlier college years, so, to his surprise, I had changed a bit.

Of course, change is normal. We grow up, priorities shift.

But I had, like, really changed. I was no longer the carefree, fun, passionate, and hopeful person he had known.

I had lost a lot of that.

I was lost. I was controlled by my thoughts and my need for perfection.

I didn’t trust myself. I didn’t like myself. I didn’t know myself.

I was broken.

And through our friendship I was able to remember the person I used to be. The person I had always been. The person he and all of my loved ones used to know me to be.

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I spent the first year or so in Boston forgetting to enjoy it. I was too wrapped up in my own mind and pursuit of perfection to realize that I was literally living my dream. I couldn’t stop thinking of the next thing and trying to put myself on new plans or big changes to escape the reality of my own mind.

After I cried in the kitchen that morning he came over to tell me he missed his friend, I worked. For the next couple years, I ramped up the work I had been doing on myself in the pursuit of getting past these mental blocks. I failed, I got back up. I failed again, I got back up, I failed 200 more times, I got back up.

After much trial and error, I found a way of living that made sense for me. Flexible goals, structure but not too much, being consistent in moving my body and taking care of myself, leting go of perfect, living presently and taking life for what it is right now, being okay with not knowing exactly what I want yet — giving myself the time to get to certain places I might want to be.

And, after thousands of attempts, I finally, within the last year, have found the person I want to become. A perfectly imperfect hybrid between who I was, who I am, and who I was always meant to be.

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I always thought that I needed to be this person in order to move to Boston and make the most of it. I thought I needed to be ready — to be perfect — and god did I try.

Looking back, it seems that jumping into my dream before I was ready, jumping in broken, is what made me come out put back together.

Through living this out, I realized that, for me, no big announcement, change in work title, change in city, purchase, or body weight is going to make me happy.

I am going to make me happy.

It makes me smile when I think of who I was when I first walked off the plane in Boston — hoping so badly that I would be a different person when I stepped off the plane than I was when I walked on. I smile because I love that version of myself so much now. I love her because at the time, I was never able to. I love her because all she was was a girl, doing the best she could. Figuring out life and failing to realize that her struggles were going to catapult her into who she was always meant to be.

I love her because she has made me who I am today.

A perfectly imperfect hybrid between who I was, who I am, and who I was always meant to be.