Is NYC Changing or Am I?
What if the lesson was never about making it—but about staying whole?
Sometimes I walk through SoHo or Downtown Brooklyn and wonder if the city feels different, or if I just do. The streets are the same, but the energy hits differently now. Maybe it’s the people, maybe it’s the pace, or maybe it’s me realizing that the things I once chased here don’t matter as much anymore.
I moved to New York out of survival, not out of ambition, not even out of a dream. I just didn’t feel like I had anywhere else to go. I needed a reset, a distraction, a place to disappear and start over. I told myself I’d stay for a year, long enough to catch my breath, save some money, and figure out what was next. But one year became two, then three, and now I’ve lost count. Somewhere along the way, New York became both my biggest heartbreak and my greatest teacher.
This city has taught me everything I didn’t know I needed to learn. How to stand on my own. How to keep going when the plan falls apart. How to rebuild when you have nothing left to give. New York forces you to face yourself, even when you don’t want to. It tests you in ways that feel personal, like it’s daring you to quit, to shrink, to surrender. And yet somehow, you keep showing up.
I ran into an old friend the other day, someone who’s seen me through almost every version of myself here. We started talking about the current state of New York—the cost, the chaos, how everyone seems to be either leaving or hanging on by a thread. He looked at me and said, “You should celebrate that you’re still here. This city breaks a lot of people, but it didn’t break you.”
His words stayed with me. Because it’s true. New York breaks so many people. I’ve seen it happen. People come here full of hope and end up stuck in survival mode. The pressure, the loneliness, the endless grind—it eats away at you. Some numb themselves with alcohol, others with ambition. Some just start living the same day over and over again. But that hasn’t been my story.
Somewhere between the late nights and early mornings, I found a rhythm. Not the one the city tried to give me, but my own. I stopped needing to be everywhere and started choosing where I actually wanted to be. The events I used to fawn over don’t excite me anymore. I’ve lost interest in proving myself to people who were never really watching. I crave softness now. Slower mornings, smaller circles, conversations that don’t require performance.
Maybe that’s what growth looks like: wanting peace more than validation. Noticing the beauty in things that used to blend into the background. I see the light on old brownstones, the trees turning gold in the fall, the quiet moments on the subway when everyone’s half-asleep but still moving. I find comfort in those small, unremarkable details that remind me I’m alive and still becoming.
Maybe New York is changing. It’s glossier, faster, harder to afford, and harder to feel connected in. But maybe I’m changing too. Maybe I’ve just learned to want less noise and more meaning. Maybe the real magic of New York isn’t in how much it changes, but in how it changes you.
