crying in public

I haven’t written since being here. In a place I knew would inspire the hell out of me, I’ve been too caught up in the chaos to hold space for it. But today, I went on a walk in Central Park to clear my head and soak up some much-needed 80-degree air—and I started crying. In Central Park. In the grass. No towel. In biker shorts. A vulnerable moment, to say the least.

And while we’re on the topic of honesty, adjusting hasn’t been all sunshines and rainbows, despite what my social media might suggest. Have I loved every second? Without a doubt. Have they all been easy? Absolutely not. But I’ve learned that things can be hard and beautiful at the same time. That I can be wildly grateful and quietly struggling. And that every time I admit that to myself, I inch closer to a version of me who feels more steady—less lost, less panicked, less self-deprecating.

People keep asking how I’m doing it. How I’m living alone, tackling New York, adjusting to all this change. The truth? I usually tell them I’m good. And I am good. But not quite great… at least not yet.

For years, I was in the healthiest mental routine. I journaled every morning. Stayed off my phone. Did breathwork. I had carved out rituals that kept me grounded. But somewhere along the way, I let it go. I’m not sure how or why, but I lost that part of myself. And every morning since, I’ve stared at my journal with frustration for not being able to just… start again.

Today, though, I listened to Jay Shetty on Jake Shane’s podcast, and something clicked. It reminded me how much quieter—how much lighter—life feels when I’m not in constant panic. When I listen to what my body is asking for. When I rest. When I say no. When I take a fucking breath.

Finding stillness in New York isn’t easy. But maybe it doesn’t have to look like it used to. Maybe it’s biking across the city as the sunsets. Or stumbling on a street I’ve never seen before and instantly falling in love. Maybe it’s hearing a familiar voice on the other end of the line. Or saying no to plans and sitting alone in the park with nothing but a book—or this notes app.

I don’t have it all figured out. I don’t think I ever will. But I am starting to notice when I’m off track—and that counts for something.

So, step one: Jay’s 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 method.

5 things I can see – the skyline, the half moon, sunlight painting the buildings gold, layers of green in the grass, a passing plane.

4 things I can hear – kids playing, birds, the hum of the plane, people laughing in the distance.

3 things I can feel – the cool grass, the dampness on my butt, my legs tucked together.

2 things I can smell – fresh grass, that first whiff of summer.

1 thing I can taste – thirst. (Should’ve brought water.)

It’s wild how this works. Because now—six days later—I’m finishing this piece, and I still feel like I’m right there. Back in the grass, the air warm, the city buzzing softly around me.

All I did was stop. Just for a second. And by doing that, I gave myself the gift of being here. Of remembering, clearly and completely, what it felt like to pause—and finally, to breathe.