A year ago today, a very bewildered and uncertain me arrived in New York.
I remember a few things about that day: being glad I'd lined up an apartment, looking at the city from the plane and trying to guess which part was which, noting the uniformed school kids as I trudged up the sidewalk with my luggage. But mostly I was in a sense of psychic overload, almost unable to believe that I was actually here, in this place, setting out on this part of my life.
Time moved quickly, and it's been an uneven road at times, but I'm mostly proud of how far I've come this year. I've made progress (stilted progress, but progress nonetheless), in myself and in my goals. I've had some wonderful experiences and some frightening ones. I've bopped down 34th Street singing show tunes, and I've cried myself to sleep. But mostly, I've just been me, swimming in a sea of eight million, trying to keep up with the tide and avoid the undertow.
So far, so good.