Today, I find myself at a crossroads—standing between the past and the present, holding memories in one hand and the promise of new beginnings in the other. At 45, the time has come to sell my childhood home in New York City, the place that shaped so much of who I am today. I’ve known this moment was inevitable, yet it doesn’t make it any easier to face.
The house that once echoed with the sounds of my laughter, the whispers of my dreams, and the silent struggles of growing up in a world that often didn’t understand me, is now just another listing on a real estate agent’s roster. I told the agent that I wanted to go back one last time—to order a pizza like my parents used to when I was young and carefree, to take pictures of the rooms that once held all my secrets, and to feel, just for a moment, like I was home again.
But lately, I’ve been second-guessing that decision. What if I’m not ready to let go? What if walking through those familiar doorways only makes me want to stay, to cling to the past with a desperation that would undo all the progress I’ve made? I can already see myself telling the driver to leave the car running, knowing that if I go inside, I might never want to leave.
Here in Vermont, I’ve found something I never thought possible—a group of friends who understand and accept me for who I am, without question, without judgment. It’s a new chapter, a fresh start that I’ve longed for, but the pages of my past still call to me. The dichotomy of it all is almost too much to bear—the desire to move forward, yet the pull to stay rooted in what once was.
I know that going back one last time might be a mistake, but the thought of never seeing it again, of never feeling the walls that cradled me in my most vulnerable moments, feels like a loss too great to endure. Maybe the answer isn’t in revisiting the past but in honoring it from a distance. Perhaps the memories are enough to carry with me, without the need to physically return.
Leave the car running, I’m not yet ready to leave.
August 28, 2024
Oh, that’s tough. I’ve always said if we ever sold our house, we’d have to move far away because I couldn’t stand seeing it again but not living in it. Maybe one last visit is good though—to say a proper goodbye. Or maybe just keep it as a private getaway.
Unfortunately, I have no choice but to sell it because the taxes in New York City are FUCKING INSANE to the point that keeping it literally costs me around $500 per day. If I sell it, then I’d actually make a little over $500 a day for the rest of my life. I think that I will go one last time, spend the night, attend the closing the following day, and return home. It’s sad, but it’s inevitable.
For me it’s not the places. I often associate the places with loss and pain, but the people and the adventures I have had in the past 70+ years that I yearn to revisit and relive although I know full well that forward is the only way to go.
For me, it’s a blend of the places and the people I once knew. Throughout my career, I lost several coworkers, a harsh reality of the job’s inherent risks. After countless near misses—moments where I walked away unscathed, almost like the protagonist in an action movie—I realized it was only a matter of time before my luck would run out. Rather than waiting for that inevitable day, I chose early retirement and moved on.
This weekend, I’m working on a special project—a sort of documentary—about the places I used to explore as a little girl. Details to follow…