Finding my way home
how my NYC apartment changed my life
It’s a disgustingly hot NYC day and my small AC window unit is struggling (loudly) to combat the near triple digit temps. I’m typing these words while seated at my dining room table that doubles as an impromptu office most days, relishing the steady breeze of (probably toxic, definitely should clean the filter) AC air. I’ve got an old Anne Hathaway movie playing on the tv for background noise and two candles flickering beside me in the hopes of masking the lingering scent of the garlicky crab fettuccine I made for dinner which will, undoubtedly, permeate the air for hours to come regardless of my efforts. Such is the plight of every apartment-dwelling New Yorker’s life - just remember to close the bedroom door before cooking.
I think I have sat in this exact same spot at my dining table every single day since it first arrived. It was, along with my couch, one of my first “big girl” purchases when I moved into this apartment nearly three and a half years ago. Before then, the only furniture I’d ever had was either purchased from the likes of IKEA and chosen solely based on affordability or, more than likely, already in existence by the time I moved into a space and not chosen by me at all.
I was hesitant to spend the money given I was already taking on a solo rent payment for the first time, but as soon as it was assembled in all its majestic, sturdy, sleek walnut beauty- I knew it was worth it. Firmly planted in the center of the apartment, it serves as both a focal point and a natural division between my kitchen and very narrow living room. It’s survived quite a few dings over the years: circular watermarks left by coaster-less glasses, dents and scratches made by the pushing of plates and platters, and one particularly nasty burn from a terribly made candle that was accidentally left unattended overnight (whoops). Truth be told, every single mark pissed me off *immensely* when I first noticed it but now, I treasure these signs of life and use. This table has been here nearly as long as I have and together we’ve fed countless dinner guests, played hours of boggle, checked things off of hundreds of to-do lists. 3ish years is relatively young for the life of a piece of furniture but it’s amazing how much can happen in that time.
Is it weird to be waxing poetic about a dining table? I mean, probably. But there’s a reason for my sentimental attitude towards inanimate objects this week because on Monday, the quirky little Chinatown-adjacent apartment that I’ve loved and called home for the last 3.5 years officially became mine to keep. AKA – I bought it. And since then, I can’t help but to look around myself in awe and gratitude, knowing that everything I see is a true reflection of who I am, who I’ve been and how far I’ve come. As my best friend Sam so eloquently put in her congratulatory card to me: “it’s not just these walls that you’ve claimed, but the amazing story they hold within them – a story of fierce independence, resilience, and the alchemy of turning struggle into triumph.”
This apartment came into my life unexpectedly and serendipitously in December 2021 during what was one of the most difficult and tumultuous times of my life. A sudden breakup had turned my world upside down, swiftly and sharply severing me from my life as I knew it within the course of 24 hours. I spent the days directly following my breakup in a state of non-functional shock, but thankfully my sisters sprang into action for me. My twin sister, Frannie, used her miles to fly me to our parents’ home in Ohio, our forever safe space, and came to join me there the next day. I still tear up when I think about the way she felt my pain so viscerally, almost as if it was her own. What they say about the twin connection is true. I spent the next few weeks there, protectively wrapped in the comfort of my mother’s hugs and cooking whenever I could bring myself to eat.
Dealing with the emotional fallout of my breakup was one thing but there were also the physical logistics of my situation that had to be addressed: I needed a new place to live. So from my parents couch in Ohio, I began the daunting process of finding a new apartment. I narrowed my search down to Manhattan; I’d only ever lived in Brooklyn and was eager for a fresh start in a new borough. And even though I knew it was going to be a stretch, I was determined to live on my own for the first time: no roommates, no boyfriends, just me. I was coming back to New York for a few days in the beginning of December to work an event at my pasta pop-up so I stacked all my spare time with apartment viewings, hoping to lock down a new home on time for the new year.
I’ll spare you the details of my vastly fruitless and depressing apartment hunt but I’ll just say that at one point, it looked like the choices in my budget would come down to a ground floor apartment with grated windows and a rat problem OR one where the kitchen was *literally* a renovated coat closet with no counters and a mini fridge. As if I weren’t depressed enough?? And while the NYC apartment market is always competitive, this time period was marked by a post-first-wave-COVID “return to the city” frenzy. Any apartments that were halfway decent were being snagged up at an alarming rate, some even inspiring rent bidding wars. More than once I’d requested to tour a newly listed property only to learn it was already off the market. Which is exactly how I stumbled upon this hidden gem.
I had contacted a broker about a listing on Allen Street that actually looked promising and was, naturally, informed that it was already off the market. But then, she told me she potentially had another place for me: not yet listed, and the tenants hadn’t moved out yet, but it was about to come on the market and the price was right. I watched the shaky walk-through video she sent me and my first thought was…what’s the catch? Because the apartment in the video seemed too good to be true or, at the very least, too good to be within my budget. It was probably twice as big as most of the other spots I’d seen, it had a small second bedroom(!!) that I was already fantasizing about turning into a Peloton room, a full guest bathroom, and an in-unit washer/dryer, for god’s sake! It felt impossible. I decided to go check it out in person ASAP so I could figure out whatever fatal flaw it undoubtedly had and squash the fantasy.
If the apartment had a fatal flaw, it was at least well-concealed because I couldn’t find it during my first initial viewing. Aside from the place being in a state of mid-moveout chaos and the hideous yellow shade of the walls it was…dare I say, perfect? It checked all the boxes on my list, and even had some features I’d never have had the audacity to *put* on my list given the improbability of my affording them, like a small balcony coming off the living room. Sure, the balcony floor was so badly corroded I was scared to step out there and sure, it overlooked a parking lot, but it was, nonetheless, a balcony! And if you squinted, you could even see the Empire State building from it. Most importantly, I felt a sense of peace and stability as soon as I stepped inside the apartment. I knew there could still be some horrible discovery lurking around the corner but this place was worlds better than anything else I’d seen so far and I couldn’t help but feel like maybe, just maybe, the universe was throwing me a bone.
This story would have been *way* more romantic if I took the apartment right then and there but split-second decisions give my risk-averse self major anxiety. I needed some time to mull things over and do a little due diligence but there was simply no way I could risk anyone snagging this place out from under me. So I did the only thing I could think of: I paid the broker $100 bucks to not list the apartment on StreetEasy for at least one more day. Play the game or it plays you, okay? Times were cutthroat. I’m not gonna lie, a few little things came up that gave me a teensy bit of pause (not worth getting into, and probably legally inadvisable) but by the end of the day I felt like I’d done a sufficient amount of mulling and confirmed that I would take it. For 24 hours I ran around the city like the Tasmanian devil, gathering enough cash (yes, cash lol) to cover first + last month’s rent, the broker’s fee and the security deposit. There was also the small task of proving that I, as a self-employed person, could actually afford the place. Thankfully everything checked out and on December 4, 2021 I signed the sublease (again, don’t worry about it). The place was mine come January 1st.
I decided to go stay in LA for a few weeks with my older sister, Natasha, to pass time before the move. In all honesty, I don’t remember much about this time period but eventually, it was time to return to New York and get down to business. I spent the last few days of December tearfully - and drunkenly - packing up my things in Greenpoint with my very patient sister (who’d come back to NYC with me) leading the effort. I ended up leaving a lot behind; I didn’t want reminders of my old life in my new place. Aside from my clothes and books, the only thing I actually cared to bring was the Peloton that I’d grown so attached to. I said a bittersweet goodbye to my life in Brooklyn and all that it came with, and moved into the apartment that was almost too good to be true a few days after the new year.
My friends came over that first night to christen the place with champagne, a huge tray of cocktail shrimp, and an insane spread of chicken fingers with all 18 sauces that Sticky’s Finger Joint provides - a few of my favorite things. We laughed, I cried, and Sarah went on a rampage breaking down boxes with the box cutter she just happened to have on her. It was a perfect night.
My first few weeks in the apartment were equal parts exciting and frustrating, happy and lonely. For starters, I had nothing: the only things inside my apartment were a blow-up mattress, a bar cart, and a peloton. I was overwhelmed by the task of transforming this empty space into a “home” and had no idea where to start. Buying furniture, hanging artwork, picking out bedding – it all requires a sense of self, and I was slowly realizing that was something I lacked. By no means was I ever someone who defined myself fully by my relationship; I actually had a very independent and robust life outside of it. But over 6 formative years, my sense of self had become so deeply, inextricably intertwined with another person’s that it was hard to know where he ended and where I began. So when faced with the prospect of creating a home and a life from scratch - where the only opinion that mattered was mine and only mine – I had no idea what I wanted.
I’d never cared too much about material objects growing up and to this day, I don’t know if that’s an intrinsic quality or a byproduct of never having had enough money to afford them. Either way, this lack of interest meant that at 29, I knew nothing about furniture, interior design, or even my own personal style; it just didn’t come naturally to me. But what I did care about was finding happiness in my new space. I cared about making my guests feel comfortable and welcome. I cared about making my surroundings a reflection of myself and the life I hoped to lead here. And I really, really cared about giving myself back the sense of stability and peace that I had lost.
The process was slow. I remember going to – ironically- Greenpoint with my friends Sam & Prerna where I got this white ceramic vase with 3 “prongs” (idk I’m not a ceramicist). It’s currently sitting on the dining table right next to me, displaying a trio of Trader Joe’s flowers I picked out earlier this week and placed strategically so as to attempt to obscure the aforementioned candle burn mark. I’ve also acquired quite a collection of vintage platters, baking dishes, and silverware over many trips to Lambertville’s iconic Golden Nugget flea market with my sisters. At some point during our adventures, I began collecting old Coca Cola trays and glasses – I love me some classic Americana. And of course, I remember getting the dining table where I sit typing today. I agonized over the options - not just because I love playing victim to decision paralysis but because I knew this table would be much more than just a slab of wood to eat on. I was dreaming of the day that this apartment would fill up with dinner guests all gathered around that table, eating and drinking and being *loud AF.* It would be sheer chaos – all my dinner parties are – but the best possible kind. The whole place would smell like garlic and the kitchen floor would be covered in a thin layer of semolina. I’d be making fresh pasta while checking on the braised short rib in the oven, enjoying the party from my favorite vantage point behind the kitchen counter. The speaker would be playing 90s hits that remind me of my best friend and my sisters and everyone would be singing along, their singing and laughter bouncing off the walls and filling the entire place with life and joy. We’d break wine glasses and spill sauce and I’d be so busy refilling glasses and wiping sauce that I would forget, even for just a moment, about the sadness inside of me that made even breathing hard some days. And maybe one day, it would be gone altogether – a relic of the past replaced by the future. I was dreaming of *that* day.
Today I am proud to report that my apartment has been the site of countless chaotic dinner parties like the one described above. And it’s far from empty. Over the years I’ve filled the place up with all sorts of amazing things: the coziest couch where so many friends have spent the night, cookbooks both old and new, and far, far too many tins of fish - just to name a few. But it was never about those “things” – you know that by now.
I found this apartment when I felt the most lost, and with it - I found my way home.
Love you! Beautiful ! You are so talented! ! ! You are great writer! So proud of you and all your achievements!
Love you so much ❤️❤️❤️
Love your story!