A story of shifting dreams, small towns, and the slow life calling.
I was 17 when I got my first addicting taste of New York City.
I had recently watched the film adaptation of Rent and fallen hard — for the music, the message, the idea of grabbing life with both hands. I memorized every lyric, sang every word out loud, and became consumed with the urgency of living fully. For my birthday that year, my parents took me to New York to see Rent at the Nederlander Theatre — the very place where it all began. We stayed with cousins in Staten Island and spent a couple of unforgettable days in the city. Not only was I mesmerized by the show — the city itself got its hooks in me. It became my new obsession.
For years, I was absolutely enchanted by New York. The lights, the movement, the sense that something was always happening. I remember standing in the middle of Times Square at 17, buzzing with life, and telling my dad: “I’ve never felt so alive.” That moment stuck with me. And for a long time, I thought I was meant to be there.
The dream of living in New York followed me through my teens and early twenties. I imagined a tiny studio apartment, success on my own terms, and the thrill of being one of the thousands swept up in the city’s current. I even made it back a few more times — for BEA, for the Rachael Ray show — always feeling that familiar electric charge. For a while, I really thought I’d get there.
But somewhere along the line, everything shifted.
I still love New York. Still feel that spark when I think about it. But these days, the version of life that I crave looks entirely different. Now, even my suburban hometown of 95,000 feels too crowded. I find myself longing for quiet. For stillness. For a life with fewer sirens and more silence.
The things I want have changed.
I used to want the hustle. The skyline. The noise and possibility. Now I want slower days. My family. My books. A kitchen big enough to cook in. A porch with space to sit and breathe. Dogs in the yard, laughter in the background, quiet evenings where nothing is urgent.
I want a farmhouse with creaky floors and acres wrapped around it — room enough to stretch out and breathe. Neighbors who wave when they pass by. Wide open spaces, dark skies with fireflies, and nights quiet enough to hear cicadas sing. A place where I can sit outside and read while the world softens around me.
I want the kind of place where Caleb can run barefoot through the grass, acres of open land to carry his laughter across the fields. Where I can sip my Diet Coke from a sweating glass while rocking slowly on the porch, book in my lap, the sun dipping low in the distance. Where the background noise is birdsong and breeze — not traffic. Where I can look out and feel calm instead of crowded. Where I finally belong to the place I’m in.
I’ve never left my hometown — not really — but lately I think about it constantly. Not to escape, but to find something better suited to who I’ve become. I keep picturing the countryside — wide fields, rolling hills, a quieter pace of life. Slower rhythms. Days that aren’t so rushed. I want land — a few acres to call my own, space enough to spread out and breathe. A place where the nights are darker, the stars burn brighter, and the air feels cleaner in your lungs. Somewhere rural, where life stretches out instead of pressing in. A place where I can breathe a little deeper and finally feel at home.
The thought of leaving the only place I’ve ever known is daunting. But the thought of staying stuck in a life that no longer fits? That’s harder.
The more I imagine it — that porch, that quiet, that shift — the more convinced I am: this is the life I want. I feel it in my bones. And I’m no longer waiting for permission to go find it.
Some dreams fade. Some evolve. And some… you chase until they lead you home.
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