I must have said a dozen times in the last few months, when questioned why I would leave such a ‘fabulous’ place that ‘promised so much opportunity,’ that city life, like a lot of other things, is as exhausting as it is gratifying. To win in new york city means to put up a good fight, constantly, but the champion in me didn’t always feel like having my dukes up. The victories grew farther and farther apart and I was left feeling like I was fighting hard in a losing battle. I know many people who have found a balance, but I wasn’t getting that. For me it was a lot of stop-and-go, highs and lows. The last four years have been some of my greatest, but the recent months shed light on my wanderlust and by early fall I felt like I had already endured a long winter. All I kept asking for was warmth, sunshine, newness. My city, once full of luster, was pallid.

 I love this place, but i’m starting to resent it. 

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Then a trip to Martha’s Vineyard, which quickly turned into five, led me to find a dreamy farm job. It’s one of those long-time fantasies that I never acted upon, because it seemed too romantic to be possible. But there I was, in the door-less threshold of an abandoned farmhouse, on a blustery February day, asking a fellow floridian if she needed help in the spring. Over the next month I packed and moved out of my Red Hook apartment and left for a new island, far less populated and much richer in soil. Now instead of prepping photo shoots, I plant dahlias and practice bow-tying on church pews. I know, I can’t believe it either. 

 But here I am, in all of my muddy-jeaned, sunny-cheeked glory, as happy as an oyster in the Tisbury Great Pond. That warmth I needed? Was in taking care of myself. And that sunshine? It’s beaming.

I’ve somehow, miraculously, manifested a bucolic life.