Chapter 17: New York Made Me Hard Enough to Want Soft
You ever get the sense that life's trying to kill you—gently?
Not with a bang. Not a car crash. Not a scandal.
But something quieter. Something slower.
A kind of spiritual carbon monoxide leak: office lights that flatten your soul into
spreadsheets, silent resentment fermenting in conference rooms, casual racism
delivered with NPR diction, and brunches with people you secretly hope cancel last
minute.
That kind of death. The slow erasure. The quiet suffocation.
That was me, right before Southeast Asia, before I started to suspect that every place
I'd ever been called to might not be random, that maybe I'd been collecting something
all along without realizing it—experiences, memories, moments that felt important for
reasons I couldn't name yet. And honestly, can't hurt to pay attention, right? I've been
called worse than curious.
n
I was turning sixty. And my husband Anthony—God love him—booked us a trip to
Southeast Asia. Luxe. Gorgeous. Expensive. Thoughtful.
And borderline dangerous.
Not because of the travel. But because he was walking straight into my trauma zone
with a smile and a travel itinerary, unknowingly carrying me toward another talisman I
didn't know I needed.
See, I don't do birthdays. Haven't for decades.
When you grow up broke and half-forgotten, birthdays are less about celebration and
more about confirmation: no one's coming. No cake. No candles. No one planning
shit. Just another day reminding you how invisible you really are.
So yeah—I don't do birthdays. And I definitely don't do surprises.
The last time someone tried that, I opened the door, saw thirty smiling faces and a sad
little banner, and without a word, turned the fuck around and walked back out. Didn't
even flinch. Didn't even wave. Just... left. People were still yelling "SURPRISE!" as the
door closed behind me.
At the time, I couldn't explain it. This incident piled more shame on my already
overflowing supply.
But now? I can tell you exactly why.
Because trauma makes joy feel dangerous. Because when you're wired for survival,
softness feels like a setup. Because when your nervous system is still living in 1970,
any unexpected kindness feels like a trap.
But this trip? This was different. This was Southeast Asia extending its hand, another
sacred geography reaching for me across oceans and time zones, whispering: come,
I have something for you.
n
And here's how I know I'd changed.
Anthony asked me: "Do you want to go to Southeast Asia for your birthday?"
And for the first time in my life, I said yes to a birthday plan. Didn't panic. Didn't run.
Didn't shut down.
I said yes.
Because something in me was ready. Ready to receive. Ready to trust that maybe joy
wasn't a trap anymore. Maybe it was just... joy.
n
New York: The Resurrection That Became A Tomb
Let me back up.
New York was supposed to be the resurrection. And for a while, it was.
I had found the perfect NYC starter kit: the hot native New Yorker boyfriend, the
advertising job, the chic Chelsea studio back when it was still loud and fabulous and
queer as fuck. The Roxy. Splash. Dance floors that pulsed with joy and grief and sex
and sweat all mixed together like some kind of holy communion.
I thought I'd made it. Survived San Francisco. Survived rehab. Survived Eric's murder.
Survived all of it.
And now? New York was going to be my reward.
Except.
n
The Slow Death
It started small.
A woman on the F train, slumped in her seat, clearly overdosed. Eyes half-open. Drool
pooling. People stepping over her legs to get to the door.
No one called 911. No one checked if she was breathing.
Just... kept moving.
I remember thinking: this is fine. This is New York. This is just how it is.
And that's when I knew I was in trouble.
Because when you start treating human tragedy as weather—as something you just...
accept—you've crossed a line you can't uncross.
n
Then there was the morning I saw a woman on the sidewalk. 8:53 a.m. Business
casual. Makeup done. Hair perfect.
She walks past me, fast. Like a heat mirage with purpose.
And I clock it: one of her breasts is just... out. Not slipping. Not a wardrobe
malfunction. Just fully free. Swinging in the breeze like it paid rent.
I do a double take, because obviously. She catches my glance. Smirks. Like she's
been waiting for me to notice.
Then—without breaking stride—she turns around, bends all the way over, grabs her
ankles, and lifts the back of her dress. Full exposure. Full intent.
It was 8:53 a.m. and I'm getting a private show on the sidewalk with zero consent and
questionable lighting.
And the best part? No one else reacts. Not one person blinks. Like this was just...
weather.
That's when I knew the city had gone feral. It wasn't just unwell. It was numb.
You get to a point where you're no longer shocked. You're just quietly horrified by how
unsurprised you are.
n
The Beautiful Cage
And yeah, by all outward measures we'd "made it."
Two solid jobs. A brownstone in Brooklyn that I actually own—the first property I've
ever owned in my entire life. A backyard. A washer-dryer, which is basically New York
canonization. Three-car garage. Still no car, don't ask. A Boston Terrier named Rocco
with more charm than most hedge fund bros.
We had a good life.
But sometimes the devil wraps the cage in cashmere. And just because it's
comfortable doesn't mean it's freedom.
n
But let me be clear about what New York gave me before it started taking too much.
Hustle. That specific NYC attitude that could stop a truck with just a side eye. The
determination to make sure I was financially secure enough to afford a month
anywhere around the world.
And considering where I come from—the poverty, the instability, the constant threat of
being thrown out or having exes scale my building, yes that happened, more than
once—I am deeply fucking grateful for this life.
New York gave me the money to buy that beautiful brownstone. And I have lived there
for fourteen years. Fourteen years in one place. The longest I've ever lived anywhere
as an adult. And I have never had this much living security in my life, so it is
meaningful. Intensely meaningful. That I have not been thrown out. That I have not
had any disasters. That I built something solid.
And speaking of solid? I used to think I was so cute when I first moved in, fitting the
house with wrought iron bars on the first-floor windows and those decorative window
boxes that are so common in The Village. I literally used to say that on the verge of
the zombie apocalypse, nothing—I mean nothing—could get into our building. We
were Fort Knox but make it gay.
Hmm. Now that I think about it, I'm not so sure. Maybe I just built my own solitude and
fortress. Made myself self-sufficient enough to withstand months if food got scarce.
Not full prepper survival, but prep-lite, if we're being honest.
And this fucker is made out of rock-solid brownstone and brick, because considering
what you know about me so far and my family history of arsonists (yes, really, we'll get
to that), fuck wooden houses that can burn down. I wanted something that could
survive fire and flood and the general chaos that seems to follow me. I wanted
permanence in a life that had been nothing but temporary.
n
New York also taught me how to be fully expressed. To not give one single fuck what
anyone thinks. Keep it moving.
And there's something liberating about that kind of anonymity where you can be
whoever you want and the city just absorbs it.
But if you pay attention, there's so much tenderness in New York too. We aren't dicks.
We're just busy people holding our lives together. We don't have time to care where
you're from because we are it—one of the most fabulous cities on the planet. Why
would you live anywhere else?
We judge you by your footwear here, but we will help a bitch out in a second if you
actually need help. Honestly.
And I'm going to miss things. Real things. Eating at Rosemary's, Au Cheval, Taco
Mahal. Because it's a fucking incredible food city. Maybe the best food city. The kind
of place where you can eat your way around the entire world without leaving a
five-mile radius.
And that matters. That's not nothing. That's one of the things that makes leaving hard
even when staying has become impossible.
n
The Corporate Performance
But then there's the other New York. The one that was killing me softly.
I spent forty years—FORTY FUCKING YEARS—in corporate America. Advertising.
Marketing. The whole circus.
And let me tell you something about corporate speak: it's necrophilia for language.
Every meeting, some overpaid executive would stand up and say shit like:
"We need to synergize our core competencies to leverage scalable solutions that
move the needle on our key performance indicators."
And I'd sit there thinking: did you just have a stroke? Should I call someone?
Because that's not language. That's verbal camouflage. It's how mediocre people
justify their salaries by making simple ideas sound complex.
"Let's circle back on that."
"We need to drill down into the granular details."
"This is a paradigm shift in our value proposition."
Just say what you fucking mean. We're delaying a decision. We need more
information. We're changing our approach.
But no. We have to operationalize our strategic initiatives and *ideate around
disruptive innovation.*
Fuck the forced team-building exercises. Fuck the passive-aggressive email chains.
Fuck the entire corporate performance of pretending any of this matters.
And especially fuck that question: "So what do you do?"
Like your worth as a human being can be summarized by whatever bullshit job title
you're currently using to pay your mortgage.
n
The Extraction
So New York gave me that—security, property, the hustle to make it all happen, the
armor I needed to survive in a world that kept trying to knock me down. It made me
hard enough that I finally wanted to be soft. Taught me I could build a fortress so solid
that I was finally free to leave it.
And you know what they say: if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.
Which I always thought was just some corny Sinatra bullshit until I realized it's actually
true. Not because New York is harder than everywhere else, but because once you
prove to yourself you can build something from nothing in a city that doesn't give a
fuck about you, you're finally free to choose softness.
But New York also started extracting more than it was giving. Started demanding I
stay numb to function. Started requiring me to treat horror as weather just to get
through the day.
n
The Pivot
Looking back now, I can see it clearly: New York wasn't the destination. It was the
place where I learned I could build something. Where I proved to myself that I could
create stability and security and a fortress that couldn't burn down.
And once you know you can survive anywhere, once you've built something solid
enough to walk away from, you're finally free to choose what you actually want.
Not another numbing corporate job. Not another mortgage payment justifying your
existence. Not another performance of success for people who don't give a fuck about
you.
But actual freedom. To do what you want. To live how you want. To stop letting fear of
scarcity dictate every choice.
n
Then Came Southeast Asia
Then came that trip. That dinner. That question.
"Do you want to?"
And I did.
Because I wanted softness. I wanted slowness. I wanted to stop performing my own
off-Broadway life like a play that never closes.
Southeast Asia gave me that. Smiles that touch your soul and aren't performative. A
place where you feel safe. People who didn't ask "What do you do?" as an
introduction. A culture where monks and complexity walk the same street in peace like
they'd figured out something the West was still too uptight to understand.
We didn't ease into it. No trial month. No safety net. We sold our shit, packed the dog,
and left.
Not because we were brave. But because staying meant spiritual extinction.
And I was finally starting to understand that these weren't just moves. These were
pilgrimages. Each city another temple I had to visit. Another blessing I had to receive.
Another layer of protection I had to gather before the real work began.
n
From Cal, Now
Sometimes you don't know how lost you are until you feel peace for the first time and
it hits you like a punch in the chest. That moment when your shoulders drop and your
jaw unclenches and you realize you've been gripping life like it's trying to run from you.
Like if you relax for even a second, everything will dissolve.
That's what leaving gave me—not perfection, not paradise, but a pause. And in that
pause, I remembered who the fuck I am. And more importantly, I started to see the
pattern. The divine geometry of my wandering. How every city I'd ever fled to or
escaped from had given me exactly what I needed: survival skills, resilience, the
ability to start over, the knowledge of what love looks like in different languages and
latitudes.
People think reinvention is loud, but it's not. It's quiet as hell. It sounds like a breath
you didn't know you were holding. And I didn't leave New York because I couldn't hack
it—I left because I did. And it cost too much. Not just dollar-wise, but spiritually.
So I chose something else. Something softer. Something that didn't require me to
bleed for it.
n
Press play.
The journey continues.
