Why I Left New York City — And Why I’ll Always Love Her

New York City raised me.

Not simply geographically — spiritually.

She raised me with grit, creativity, audacity, humor, hunger, style, and an unwavering belief that life could become bigger than whatever circumstances surrounded you.

My parents met while attending Columbia University in the early 1970s in what is now called Hamilton Heights. I was born at Harlem Hospital, but my most formative years unfolded in the Bronx, just off the Kingsbridge Road subway station along the Grand Concourse.

The Bronx of the early 1980s was a contradiction.

Burnt-out buildings stood beside vibrant murals and graffiti-covered subway cars that looked like moving canvases. Boom boxes blasted the birth of hip-hop culture into the streets while breakdancers transformed flattened cardboard boxes into stages for artistic expression.

The subway platforms carried that distinct scent every New Yorker from that era remembers — heat, steel, electricity, and urine somehow fusing into one unforgettable stench that marked the city’s underground pulse.

And yet… there was beauty everywhere.

Fordham Road was alive.

Movie theaters lined the streets — the RKO Valentine, Lowe’s Paradise, and others whose names blur together now in memory. But Lowe’s Paradise remains crystal clear in my mind.

I was only eight years old when I first walked into that majestic theater.

Heavy velvet curtains.
Gold Romanesque detailing.
An enormous staircase.
Gothic sculptures.

A lobby so grand it felt like stepping into another century.

It carried the glamour of a forgotten New York.

I remember seeing “The Last Dragon” and Breakin’ there — films that perfectly mirrored the creative electricity of the 80’s and the city itself.

Outside, vendors sold Italian ices and sliced mangoes during the summer months. There were dine-in Chinese restaurants with white linen tablecloths, old-school butcher shops where everyone knew your family by name, and bodegas where you could find almost anything.

We never bought meat wrapped in plastic trays.

I remember whole chickens wrapped in thick parchment paper from the neighborhood butcher shop — chickens my father roasted to perfection every Sunday in our two bedroom apartment with parquet floors and French doors.

That New York no longer fully exists.

Or perhaps it exists now only inside the memories of those of us who lived it.

As children, we took school trips to the Bronx Zoo, the Museum of Natural History — my favorite place in the world — the United Nations, and even Albany to visit the state capital.

We lived just blocks from Edgar Allan Poe’s cottage across from the famous Ortiz Funeral Home.

The neighborhood was textured.
Layered.
Alive.

Alexander’s Department Store was the epicenter of commerce before it later became Caldor. I remember buying my first pair of Gitano jeans there. My first bra. Bright jelly sandals. Giant hair bows. Cheap makeup. Bandannas.

Pizza slices were fifty cents.

Kids played stickball in the streets while fire hydrants exploded open during the summer heat.

That city gave me texture.

More importantly, it gave me ambition.

As an adult, New York expanded my world even further.

I pursued a career as a theatrical dancer and performer. I remember returning home after my first national tour feeling overwhelmed with gratitude to be back in the city.

One afternoon, while walking through Central Park with a friend near Central Park West, we passed a man sitting quietly on a bench wearing sunglasses, denim jeans, sneakers, and a crisp white shirt.

He smiled at me as we walked by.

I smiled back.

We kept walking because New Yorkers understand something many people don’t:

You respect people’s space.

The moment we were out of earshot, I turned to my friend and whispered, “Was that…?”

She nodded.

Yes.

That was one of the beautiful things about New York — celebrities weren’t trapped behind velvet ropes or screens. They existed among us. On subways. In grocery stores. Sitting quietly in parks.

Creators lived in proximity to other creators.

And that proximity changes you.

It makes dreams feel tangible.

New York also gave me unforgettable nights in Chelsea during the early 1990s.

Webster Hall.
Nell’s.
Save the Robots.
The Tunnel.

After the clubs, we’d grab 99-cent hotdogs at Gray’s Papaya on 10th Street and Seventh Avenue or eat breakfast at the Waverly Diner at four in the morning while the city continued moving around us.

At some point, I realized I had “made it” — at least by my own standards.

I had a studio apartment.
A cat.
Enough money to sustain myself.
A little savings.
The ability to travel every few years.

For a girl raised in the Bronx during the 1980s, that felt monumental.

And yet… something inside me still longed for more.

Not more success.

More life.

So eventually, I left.

Not because I hated New York.

Quite the opposite.

I left because New York had already given me exactly what I needed.

She taught me how to survive, and the confidence to explore the world.

France taught me how to breathe.

Now I live on a tiny cul-de-sac in Provence overlooking vineyards and the Mediterranean Sea. Life is slower here. Softer. More intentional.

But the New York spirit never left me.

I still create.
I still dream boldly.
I still hustle.

Only now, I hustle differently.

I create from inspiration rather than urgency.
From curiosity rather than exhaustion.

And perhaps that is what reinvention really is.

Not abandoning who you were…

But carrying the best parts of yourself into a softer season of life.

Every time I return to New York, I feel both gratitude and grief.

So much of the city I loved has changed.

The prices.
The pace.
The energy.

But perhaps that’s inevitable.

New York evolves.
And so do the people she raises.

I will always love her.

I look forward to bringing my husband there one day to show him the city that made me — the city that taught me resilience, resourcefulness, creativity, and hunger.

But these days, the sweetness comes from knowing my visits are temporary.

Because while New York taught me how to survive…

Provence taught me how to live.