originally written early February 2025.

Around a month and a half ago, I moved from California to New York City.

Large life changes and transitional periods are always fraught with challenges for a multitude of reasons - a sense of displacement, uncertainty in one's surroundings, craving routine, new social situations to navigate, the list goes on. Two separate locals have now asked me for my first impressions of the city and how it differs from my old home. Both times, the question has caught me unprepared and I'm not sure why - it's a perfectly reasonable inquiry! If you've lived somewhere for years, it's natural to feel curious and it may not be often that you get a chance to gain fresh perspective from the lens of a newcomer. Both times, I brushed it off with a response that prompts a chuckle. "Well there's winter" or "The amount of people from New Jersey".

But I've been reflecting on this a lot myself. There are some things that feel shockingly homey about NYC for someone who has never lived here before. Riding the subway on commutes, taking long walks through the park, and being surrounded by ambitious colleagues in the office all feel surprisingly familiar. I'll turn the corner onto a brownstone-lined street and feel an immense wave of peace and belonging. It's a combination of the physical release when you feel at ease and the spiritual sense that I'm in the right place.

That being said, one thing strikes me the most as I navigate this new terrain. I have grown acutely appreciative of the importance of "awe" in our lives as humans. Something I have been struggling with thus far during my "trial period" as a New Yorker is how condensed things can feel here. Subway cars packed like sardines with people from all walks of life. Neighborhoods in Manhattan where you have to seek out sunlight or an open sky due to the surrounding skyscrapers. Soulless high-rise buildings, their cookie-cutter units stacked to optimize space and pack in as many renters as possible. As I wander around and observe my fellow yuppies and city-dwellers, I can't help but wonder how many of them fill their days moving from cramped apartment to cramped subway to cramped office cubicle under oppressive fluorescent office lights and then back again... often head down, captivated by a screen.

I feel that experiencing little moments of wonder or awe in our daily lives is integral to being human. Through having awe-inspiring flashes that pull you out of your (potentially monotonous) routine - be it witnessing an act of kindness from a stranger, taking in a dazzling sunset, or listening to a new song that stops you in your tracks and shakes you to your core - we're forced to experience something outside of ourselves. In a society that's becoming increasingly self-centered and devoid of interpersonal connections in some ways, these small moments become more consequential than we realize - broadening our perspectives, reducing anxiety, expanding creativity, and reigniting senses of meaning and connectivity.

Personally, I have always found these moments come to me most readily through nature. A blossoming flower, the way a tree’s branches weave around each other, an unobstructed horizon line when you’re standing on a mountain or at the coast… these types of scenes were easy to come by in San Francisco. The city's design seamlessly integrates nature with man-made structures in a way unlike anything I've ever experienced elsewhere.

My true first impression of New York City is that it appears much harder to regularly experience awe-striking moments like that, and it shows in the way that people interact with each other. People seem more abrupt with each other, less considerate and less inclined to kindness toward strangers. Some are myopically focused on work or success, to the detriment of their well-being or relationships with others. There’s a general air of detachment and being closed off from each other. To experience moments of wonder that make you zoom out from what's in front of you and see beyond your daily life, you have to seek them more intentionally here—or so it seems. Because it’s much harder to come by in day-to-day movement through the world, I fear that many people living here do not prioritize finding these moments to get out of their heads and let go of their egos.

Would a healthy dose of awe change the culture of this city? Or is winter perhaps contributing to the overall sheltered milieu - bundling people up, hurrying them inside, and forcing them to fend off seasonal affective disorder. Perhaps time will tell, or maybe the changing seasons will reveal a different side of the city.

For now, I will continue to seek out moments of wonder to keep myself grounded in the midst of the hustle and bustle.