Goodbye to All That: Brooklyn Edition

15 years, 3 neighborhoods, a million lifetimes

My new backyard is different than my old one

Well, we did it. We moved out of the city.

I still can’t quite believe it — that we actually made up our minds and pulled the trigger. But as soon as the decision became official, I had this sudden burst of clarity: this was inevitable.

From our earliest days together, my husband and I had a running joke: the only way to stay sane living in the city was to leave it often. And so we did—escaping on weekend trips upstate, road-tripping up and down the East Coast, flying across the country, and traveling abroad.

Wherever we went, we’d always ask: Could we live here? We’d spin fantasies about future routines in each place—life in a small Catskills town, teaching abroad in Portugal, farming on a kibbutz in Israel, embracing snowy winters in Montreal or Buffalo, retiring on a ranch in New Mexico, surfing in Puerto Rico.

Each imagined life felt both entirely possible and utterly out of reach. For days, we’d get lost in the daydreams. Would this be our grocery store? Maybe our future kids would go to this school. What’s the teacher pay like here?

But there’s something I only now realize: we never fantasized this way about growing old in the city, never pictured ourselves there decades down the line. It was just a matter of time and circumstance before we left.

That’s not to say Brooklyn wasn’t incredibly good to me.

I moved there in 2009, after one particularly hazy year living in the West Village. Over the years, I lived in three neighborhoods, each marking a distinct chapter of my life. From being young, dumb, newly sober, and nannying in Greenpoint, to newly married and juggling grad school in Clinton Hill, to becoming a mom and an established early childhood educator in Kensington, Brooklyn has been both the backbeat and the backdrop to my life.

1. 2009 to 2013: Greenpoint, ages 26 to 30:

Greenpoint + me, in my early twenties, dead-eyed like XX

I moved to Greenpoint in September 2009, at age 26. My rented room was more of a glorified hallway than a proper bedroom, but I didn’t care—it was a fresh start. I was newly single, newly sober, and completely directionless after recently quitting my much-hated post-college advertising job. I felt unmoored and undone, like a haphazardly drawn sketch of a girl, with all of the ink spilling out of the lines.

The truth is, I’d been lost for a while. My mom died when I was nineteen, and the wild ocean waves of grief led me to a kind of depressive, romanticized, reckless nihilism. That nihilism eventually led to quite a lot of drinking and even more of drugs, until two friends incredibly staged an intervention that quite literally saved my life.

At 25, I took a leap of utter blind faith and got sober. I have no idea why it worked—I had literally no idea what I was doing. I just knew that the way I was living was going nowhere good, and fast.

Learning to live without substances wasn’t about returning to normal for me—it was about learning to actually live for the first time.

I was only four months sober when I moved to Greenpoint, so I quickly structured my days and nights around recovery meetings. I found myself surrounded by some of the coolest, funniest, and most inspiring people I’ve ever met—and probably ever will. They were rockstars—some literally! Artists, musicians, writers, comedians, filmmakers, teachers, nurses, engineers, electricians, bartenders, construction workers, and everything in between. But what really set them apart was their brazen openness and vulnerability—something I had never encountered in such objectively cool people—and I was hooked. I soaked up their wisdom, humor, and strength like sunlight, immensely grateful to have their example as a beacon out of the storm. From them, I found friends and a community that would forever shape me.

I worked a solid recovery program in the rooms of Greenpoint and, by proxy, Williamsburg: the steps, a sponsor, sponsoring others, making amends, leading meetings. The process shaped me into the person I am today.

To this day, I truly believe literally everyone could benefit from working a program like this, because at its core it teaches you how to live a good, solid, respectable life. I learned to take responsibility for my actions, to show up for myself and others, and to approach life with gratitude, humility, and a positive mind. I learned how to admit when I was wrong—which I was and still am often—and to try my best to keep my side of the street clean. I discovered meditation and found spiritual strength in something bigger than myself.

It was, in essence, the Life Skills 101 course I desperately needed.

Those years sober and working the program completely transformed my life. Everything good that came after—meeting and marrying my husband, starting our family, going back to grad school, and finding work I love—has its roots in that time and place.

Though I’m no longer substance-free, I’ll always hold deep reverence for what recovery gave me. It wasn’t just a bridge back to life; it was a chance to build a life bigger and more meaningful than I’d ever imagined.

Greenpoint and Williamsburg will forever be the backdrop to some of the most transformative years of my life. That time, that place, and that community were extraordinary—a rare confluence of people and circumstances that created something far greater than we likely realized at the time. It was there, and with them, that I built a solid foundation for my life, one that still, thankfully, remains today.

Me and Jessa from Girls 🤝 nannying in Greenpoint in the 2010s

Amidst the wild upheavals in my personal life, I stumbled into nannying sort of sideways—a friend knew a family looking, and that was that. It wasn’t part of any grand plan—just a temporary fallback, something I assumed would be easy while I figured out what I was really supposed to do.

But life often has a way of pointing me in the right direction without me realizing it. I began caring for two of the funniest, most spirited little boys, and before long, I fell completely in love—with them, with the rhythm of our days, and with the work itself.

What surprised me at first was how joyful it felt. I loved our daily adventures: hours spent outside in playgrounds and parks, or getting lost in library stacks, or exploring museum exhibits. The freedom of movement and the abundance of sunshine felt like a revelation after spending the previous three years confined to a slate-gray Midtown Manhattan office from 10 a.m. to 7 p.m. every day.

I found a calm contentment in the simple, hands-on play of childhood—drawing, painting, building, puzzling. The boys’ curiosity, creativity, and humor were contagious. I often joke that I work best with young kids because “they get my humor,” but the truth is, I get theirs—and it’s genuinely funny stuff. I laughed more with them than I ever did with my advertising colleagues, that’s for sure.

But it wasn’t just fun; it felt purposeful. In time, I realized I was good at this type of care work, and that this work mattered. The boys thrived under my care, just as I did alongside them. My self-esteem and self-worth grew in tandem with their development.

At the time, I thought I was just passing the days with Lego builds and string cheese, but slowly, over the years, nannying became more than a job—it became an education in children and in connection. I learned to listen, nurture, guide, and help kids feel seen, supported, and loved. Those early days quietly sowed the seeds for what would become my work in early childhood.

2. 2013 to 2017: Clinton Hill, ages 30 to 34

Immaculate vibe brownstones in Clinton Hill + us after a marathon, 2014

I met my husband, Adam, in 2011 on OKCupid—back when it was a dinky little website and not yet a swipe-based app (and to that I say, thank god, truly). We wrote each other long, meandering emails, like we were engaged in some old-fashioned courtship. Our first date was at the now-closed Mexican restaurant Pequeña in Fort Greene. My awkward first wave became an inside joke that we still reenact a few times a year.

In 2013, we got engaged and moved in together in Clinton Hill, right across the street from the Pratt Sculpture Garden. Walking through the garden, surrounded by the large-scale public art, became one of my favorite solo rituals.

How bad do you want to just chill there?!

Clinton Hill marked the start of a new chapter for us. After years of nannying and teaching kids yoga in Greenpoint, I finally went to grad school for my Master’s in Early Childhood Education, while Adam simultaneously pursued his teaching certification.

We were both in full hustle mode—working full-time, taking night classes, studying, and writing papers whenever we could. To decompress from it all, we ran half and full marathons like total maniacs (him, both; me, just halves). Figuratively and literally, I was pounding the pavement, running hard in every direction of my life.

At this point, I was still learning how to be an adult. I had been sober for years and felt sturdy, but I still had so much to figure out. I taught myself simple self-care habits, like how to meal prep roasted veggies, how to bake healthy, hearty muffins filled with things like dates and shredded carrots, and how to clean an oven (jk I still don’t know how to do that). I was a sponge for new knowledge and experiences. This was the age of Groupon and LivingSocial, and saying yes to weird, niche classes and events became like my second (or third) job.

Oh, to be young, in love, and child-free in the city! We were BAM members, regularly catching indie films and self-serious plays. We’d linger over the paper New York Times on weekends, and then stroll through the Fort Greene Farmers Market with take-out coffee in hand. I’d host book clubs, vision board nights, craft sessions, and themed dinner parties—like show-and-tell with PowerPoint presentations. It was a mix of intense work and breezy play, building a future while still reveling in our freedoms.

Years later, we revisited Pequeña to relive our first date and both ended up with food poisoning—a funny reminder that you can always go back, but not all the way.

Still, those Clinton Hill years shaped us. They were the beginning of everything we have today, including a shared purpose in the belief that we could build a really good life together, one that balances work and play, effort and rest.

3. 2017 to 2024: Kensington, ages 34 to 41

Ocean Parkway // the sunlight // new mutha

When I was eight months pregnant, we moved to greener pastures in Kensington, a diverse slice of the city nestled between Ditmas Park and Windsor Terrace. Our new apartment was bigger and brighter than the one we left behind in Clinton Hill, and it felt like an oasis during those hazy, tender postpartum months. I spent countless hours on our couch, cradling my newborn and watching the sunlight dance through our windows.

This is where and how I became a mom.

I loved that our new home was exactly one mile from the lake in Prospect Park, a fact I held like a sacred pebble in my hand. I took walks everywhere, pushing the stroller up and down the tree-lined Ocean Parkway, through Prospect Park, and along Ditmas Park’s colorful Victorian homes. I strolled along the coffee shops, bookstores, restaurants, and playgrounds along Cortelyou Road, Church Avenue, and Fort Hamilton Parkway. These walks became my favorite thing—a chance to move, soak up the sunshine, and carve out moments of peace amidst the whirlwind of new motherhood.

I submitted my master’s thesis just two weeks before giving a birth, a feat of time management my Virgo-side loved. By that point, I had already been teaching for several years, starting as an assistant teacher during grad school. I quickly transitioned into head teacher roles at various schools across Brooklyn, eventually bringing my then-toddler son along with me as a package deal.

First, there was the really amazing playschool in Williamsburg, followed by a Reggio Emilia-inspired backyard program in Windsor Terrace, and later a larger, progressive Jewish Montessori school in Prospect Heights. These schools were each vastly different, but they all taught me invaluable lessons that shaped my confidence and capabilities as an educator.

Now, a decade later, I know I’m really good at my work—and it feels empowering to say that with conviction.

But Kensington also carries the weight of 2020. I remember anxiously listening to sirens from my balcony, their wails piercing the stillness every two minutes, and the nightly 7 p.m. applause for essential workers—a fleeting moment of gratitude and connection in an otherwise terrifying time. Our apartment was bigger and brighter, yes, but it felt impossibly small once we were confined to it with an energetic two-year-old. For the first time, NYC felt claustrophobic to me, as though the center could not hold.

Still, Kensington became the backdrop to a transformative chapter of my life. It’s where I grew into motherhood, found confidence in my work, and came into my own, navigating the joys and challenges of life.

We outgrew our sunny apartment with the birth of our second son. His arrival made it clear we needed more space. We could have stayed in the city, found another bigger apartment, and continued on that path—we definitely thought about it! That city life will always be a sister ship I’ll wave to from the shore.

But with our two wild boys, the pull of space, nature, and family became undeniable. Days spent with their grandparents and great-grandma, weaving together the generations on the beach, felt like a gift too meaningful to pass up.

Now, I’m so grateful to have nature as the backdrop for this next chapter—a place where the boys can run wild and free, where the ocean is just a short walk away, and where we can continue to build this life we love.

2025 to ??: Long Beach, ages 41 to ??

TBD