The Girl Who Landed on the Edge of the World

My Life in the City That Never Sleeps

Chapter I

When I first touched down in New York—fresh off an LA vacation, no less—I told myself it was for the usual suspects: ambition, opportunity, the calling. But if I’m honest, it was all of the above, plus a pinch of escape. I arrived in 2022, September 19th, — a date that feels carved into my life’s timeline like an opening scene.

I’d spent a few days in Los Angeles before flying east, pretending it was a vacation, even though I knew I wasn’t coming back. I sipped overpriced lattes, journaled on Santa Monica Beach, and convinced myself I was ready. In reality, I was terrified.

New York wasn’t just a place I wanted to move to.

It was a calling — something between ambition and destiny.

I’d watched every YouTube video months ahead of moving here about “how to survive NYC” — the grind, the chaos, the glamorized poverty of chasing your dreams in a concrete jungle just to be prepared, so it doesn’t swallow me.

I thought I was ready for the pace, for the people, for the possibility of becoming someone else.

But instead of stepping into my cinematic debut, I landed in Brighton Beach — Brooklyn’s little Soviet time capsule.

It was like I’d flown 5,639 miles just to end up back in the 90s.

Old Georgian and Russian voices filled the air, signs in Cyrillic, borscht in deli windows, grandmas arguing over bread prices. I had a cultural shock.

At first, it felt safe — familiar. Then it felt strange.

Wasn’t I supposed to be somewhere new?

I kept waiting for that “main character” moment — the one where everything suddenly feels different, like the soundtrack changes and the city finally welcomes you in.

But New York doesn’t give you that. You have to claim it.

There was no grand plan. Just me, my courage, and the city that never sleeps.

Little did I know, the real chaos hadn’t even started yet.