A small town couldn’t save me.

“I’ve never lived in a small town. I’ve made too many mistakes. For where you gotta write your book early, or it gets written up in your place.”

Mitski’s voice hung in the air at her recent concert in New York City, a slow, aching hum that settled deep in my chest. Surrounded mostly by other oddly dressed girls in outfits that said “individuality” but screamed “conformity” when we all gathered in one place, I felt like I was part of something big, something exciting. A random Monday night, and there I was, seeing one of my favorite artists live.

That morning, I’d gone for a run through Central Park, then spent the rest of the day juggling phone calls about my latest creative project before meeting friends for drinks and apps. After the show, I’d hop on the subway, be home in less than thirty minutes, and retreat into the familiar comfort of my own apartment. It was an extra-fun day, yes—but not totally out of the ordinary. This is New York City. There’s always something happening, always something exciting. Always something.

“In a big city, you can start over. The lights all around you, the dark safe inside.”

Those lyrics slapped me right across the face. They slid right through the noise of the crowd, through the bustle of a busy Monday, and planted themselves somewhere deep inside me. For the first time in a while, I felt the distance from the life I had left behind just a few years ago—the one with my husband and our cat in a small town that feels impossibly far away now. The one where I retreated to suburbia to seek some peace and found something far more complicated.

I moved out of New York City in 2023.

By then, I’d spent a decade in Manhattan, another four years if you count the time I spent in the outer boroughs (and before you say yes, please know it was Staten Island). When I first moved to the city, I had this naive optimism (delusion?) that I was on the verge of something grand. That hope became fuel. It carried me through professional rejection, day jobs that drained me, side gigs that barely paid, and the relentless hustle that is New York. That excitement and ambition kept me going for a while, until the exhaustion crept in. Slowly at first, then all at once, I realized I’d been running in place, too tired to keep chasing something that no longer felt attainable.

The city had become a grind, not a promise.

The decision to move wasn’t the result of any single incident; it was the culmination of a decade of mental erosion and exhaustion. At first, the city was full of possibility, but as the years went on, and my finances struggled, the dreams that once seemed clear began to blur. I couldn’t afford classes or pay-to-play workshops. I worked minimum wage 40 hours a week most of the time. Reprieve came from one-off acting jobs, mostly commercials, but the daily grind consisted of waking up, working, and sleeping. The shine had worn off, and the struggle felt heavier. I also lived with someone who seemed to have unlimited opportunity. He never had to get a day job, but mostly just hung around between acting gigs, waiting for the next opportunity to arise. He never took classes, but only because he felt he didn’t need them. I tried not to let the comparison of our lives and experiences breed resentment, but I think somewhere deep down it did. This is not to say that he didn’t work hard or that I wasn’t happy for his success, but comparison is hard when you share a life, a dream, and a bed with someone. It’s hard to deny the reality that life might just be easier for men than women. It was hard that for years I’d wake up at 4 a.m. to work my minimum-wage job, not be able to afford lunch, and come home to him playing video games. It ate away at me.

One day, I was standing on the uptown A train platform at 34th Street. It was around 11 p.m., and I had just worked a 9-hour shift at my day job. In those days, I worked outside every shift, right on the Hudson River. My back ached from being on my feet, and my skin hurt from being whipped by the wind. As I waited an obscenely long time for the train, a man approached a nearby passenger who was on his phone and punched him in the face for no reason at all. After that, he started marching toward me. In that moment, I felt oddly calm because I had internally accepted that I was about to get punched in the face. I didn’t move or brace myself. I just waited for him to strike me. My only thought was, Why do I live here?

The man ended up shouldering me instead of punching me, which, in hindsight, was a relief.

So, I started doing something I have never done before: I started romanticizing the suburbs. I thought about the farmers market that my then-husband and I would drive up to from Washington Heights to Westchester County. I envisioned the leisurely walking paths along the Hudson River, the charming small businesses along Main Street, the quaint coffee shops, the antique stores, and the local characters greeting each other on the sidewalks. We would visit often, but what if we just lived there? I thought about the ease of a slower life.

I thought about…

Stars Hollow.

I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW. The cliché of all clichés!

Yes, the fictional town from Gilmore Girls. I dreamt of it, of course. The quirky neighbors, the tight-knit community, the small-town charm. And when we eventually moved to a town that resembled Stars Hollow in more ways than I care to admit, it felt like a win. A fresh start. A quieter life. It wasn’t a compromise—it was a surrender.

I couldn’t hack it in New York anymore. The debt, the rent, the constant struggle—it was exhausting. My life had become a loop of working shifts, coming home, cooking dinner, and sinking into the couch. Why not do that somewhere less expensive? Somewhere less frantic?

I started to blame the city for all my woes—the constant hum of it all, the movement of people and trains and cars! All those energies zipping around above and below and in front of me. It felt like the source of all my anxiety, the culprit in my restless nights. I thought moving to the suburbs would fix everything. Pathetically, I felt betrayed by NYC. My former favorite place had chewed me up and spit me out. It was brutal, unforgiving. How could something I loved so much treat me so badly?

So, I pitched the idea of moving to nearby Westchester to my then-husband. “You can get to Grand Central in 38 minutes!” I said. “Some places in Brooklyn are further away,” I said. “You can drive into Manhattan in half an hour!” I said (tippy top of it, but my point still stood).

He was willing to look. Once we looked, he was willing to move. More than willing, actually. He was as excited about it as I was. And that was that.

We moved into a duplex apartment in October 2023. One year after our wedding, one year before I would discover his affair and move out. The apartment was old but large, quirky but well-maintained. It was a true two-bedroom with a small office, boasting a large kitchen, cozy living room, and an unremarkable bathroom. We had a place to park our car and bike outside. A little front lawn seating area where we could hang out with our neighbors. I famously can’t drive but never really needed to: I could walk to the town, the train, the grocery store, the gym, and the library in under ten minutes. I joined the locally owned gym and started to get to know people in the group fitness classes. I took knitting lessons every Tuesday morning with a wonderful group of ladies. I wrote plays in the library. But the best thing was the farmers market, the one that enchanted me to the town, just a few minutes’ walk away. Well, that and the fabulous local lore: I lived in a town famous for its Halloween festivities.

The neighbors were neighborly. The coffee shop knew me by name within a few short visits. On our first day in town, our neighbor gifted us beer made with hops he grew right out on his front yard. It was small-town living in the most idyllic sense.

It was perfect. It was quiet. It was frictionless.

I was happy with the change. And so was my then-husband. Our friends jokingly called him “the mayor,” as he seemed to take every possible opportunity to boast about our new living arrangements. We’d have our city friends visit, and he would proudly show off our little village, watching people oooh and aaah with jealousy about the calm suburban life we’d created—just—say it with me now—38 minutes outside of Grand Central!

But I still couldn’t sleep.

The frustration I felt about the direction of my life still hung over me like a cloud, but I was no longer living in the same city as my support system. Making plans in Manhattan or, God forbid, Brooklyn, felt like a chore. It’s only a 38-minute train ride to Grand Central, but the trains may only run every hour. And it was a 10-minute walk to the train. So, really, 48 minutes to Manhattan. If you caught a rare hyper-express. Most trains were local. I still worked my day job, and it was still hard. The peace existed externally, but it never quite soaked in.

Now, I lied awake alone in the guest bedroom every night, contending with some internal void that I supposed would never be filled, feeling foolish that it wasn’t the city’s fault after all. I guess I was just internally broken in some way. That sucks!

Then, in August 2024, I discovered my husband was having an affair, and it all fell apart. Suddenly, I was back at our little duplex apartment with my parents and my close friend, sorting through the objects of marital collection, determining what stays and what goes, like a heartbroken Roman emperor. Vitamix—thumbs up. Engagement photos—feed it to the lions! My downstairs neighbor joins the circus, asking tearily if she can buy my AC. Whatever! Take whatever! I can’t care about any one object this much at this point.

A sudden divorce hands you a very long list of things you’ll never get back. The marriage, sure, that’s at the top, but it doesn’t stop there. It’s everything else, too. Your days feel different. The way you look at yourself is different. You are different. Your memories are tainted. Your extended family is suddently gone. And in my case, leaving the small town felt like another thing on that list: a thing I loved but couldn’t keep.

The small town was a place for women who have husbands, cats, and perhaps an irrational affection for farmers’ markets. But me? I’m alone and angry (still like farmers markets, though). And if there’s one thing I know, it’s that small towns don’t know what to do with women like me. So, there I was, looking at New York again—the big, noisy, stressful city that had chewed me up once and spit me out. And yet, it was the devil I knew. It is where my job is. It’s where my support system is. It’s where I probably should be if I want to make the professional moves I am trying to make. And for the first time, I would be alone in it. Completely. Alone.

Which is, of course, terrifying. But also a little like ripping off a Band-Aid.

So I found an apartment. And somehow, in that moment, it felt like my rebirth. Like I had been someone else for too long and was now stepping into a body that could breathe again. Yes, moving back to Manhattan felt a little like getting back with an ex, but we took some time apart and I know how to make things work this time, baby! Forgive me!!

The first few months in my apartment felt like a swirl of chaos and newness. There was so much to get done that I was paralyzed most of the time. I was clawing my way out of monumental grief, rewriting the script of my life, learning about who I am as a single person for the first time ever. I had to learn a million new little things every day: which exit was the most optimal to get out of the subway, how to regulate the temperature in my extremely shoddy shower, what coffee shops allowed laptops on weekends. Then, I had to learn a thousand new big things: Who the fuck am I alone? Will I ever be able to trust anyone again? Will I be able to trust myself?

It was hard and scary, but also exciting, and yes, also still scary. It was scary, and I was scared. Ahh!

But surprisingly, the things that made me anxious before separating from my husband didn’t bother me so much anymore. All the things I thought were causing my anxiety left me largely nonplussed. But I wasn’t so anxious. And that was a surprise. My heart wasn’t racing on the subway, and I wasn’t depressed at work. I thought that NYC was the source of all this pain, but maybe it wasn’t her fault after all.

Maybe it’s random. Maybe it’s just my body realizing it’s no longer sleeping next to someone who ultimately hated me. Maybe it’s that I’m finally living a life by my design for the first time ever.

Now, living in the city feels alive again. It’s fueling me instead of draining me. It’s like the New York I always dreamed of when I was young—the one where I was going to be the one who figured everything out, who found herself. My marriage? That was the thing that chewed me up and spit me out. That was what betrayed me. And honestly, good riddance.

I’m kind of back in love with the city now, which is wild, because a few years ago, I couldn’t imagine wanting to stay. Now? I can’t imagine living anywhere else. I just hope New York can forgive me for all those moments I tried to run away from her. Sorry baby, forgive me baby, the small town meant nothing to me!

I still have moments, of course. Sometimes, late at night, the uncertainty creeps in again. The city gets loud, and I feel the weight of my choices, the ache of starting over. I think about the life I left behind, the quiet, the simplicity of a town where everyone knows your name. It’s tempting, that life, with its predictable rhythms. I miss the slow pace sometimes. But then I remember: that life wasn’t for me. It was for someone who wasn’t quite as restless, someone who had found their place. And I hadn’t.

So, I keep moving. I keep navigating this big, sprawling city that feels, on some days, like it’s swallowing me whole and, on others, like it’s cradling me in its immense hands. Maybe that’s what it means to start over: to understand that you’re never really starting from nothing. You’re starting with everything. With the ghosts of the past, the lessons learned, and the hopes that refuse to die.