Last October, I went to New York City the week before my fortieth birthday. I brought my husband. I stayed in a fifth floor apartment in Chinatown. I worked. I met a friend in person for the first time. I spent time with an old friend I never get to see. I ate the same thing for breakfast every day from the cafe down the street – the hummus plate. I daydreamed about what it would be like to live there and ached to have that chance. I navigated the city alone. I took a ferry the wrong way. I saw things everywhere that I didn’t want to forget. I paid attention. I had an hour long Uber drive with an interesting fellow. I had my aura photographed. I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge. I let go of my fear… a little bit. I opened up. I burned Palo Santo and played records. I walked until I got blisters and they bled through my bandaids and I kept walking. I shot in the rain. I shot in Upper East Side apartments. I shot near the water and in the busy streets. I shot my friends. I shot in Central Park. I went to museums. I dealt with conflicts. I shopped in Soho. I watched the street from a fire escape. I felt the hot wind of the subway on approach. I saw that I was competent. I saw that I could choose to trust myself. I watched the sky from a rooftop. I was lucky enough to be able to be photographed with my husband, sexy, sweet, meaningful photos. I remembered my passions as I gleefully experimented with them. I took note. I noticed. I stressed, I cried, I got over it, I learned, I grew, I changed.
I started to acknowledge who I was becoming.