Life, Interrupted…
Isn’t life strange? By the time the clock nudged past noon yesterday, I felt like I had lived four different lives already, all without leaving the patch of the Upper West Side I call home. From my 11th-floor perch, the city sprawled beneath me, restless and noisy, its score drifting straight into my apartment. Every window was slung open to the most divine breeze, and with it came the city’s tune—sirens sliding like trumpets on a caffeine rush, buses sighing their bass notes at the curb, and the M60 looping endlessly like a stubborn record. That breeze kept threading itself around me, lifting curtains and ruffling notes, and I realized the inside and outside were never really separate here—inside and outside feels almost irrelevant.
The day began with bureaucracy, as so many New York days do. A missing back paycheck had apparently decided never to arrive, and I found myself on the phone with a federal agency that will remain nameless to protect the guilty. Four different people, three different phone numbers, zero answers, and me—still no closer to finding out what happened. At this point, I half expect the check to send me a postcard from Florida announcing its retirement. The breeze, mercifully, cooled my exasperation before it boiled over.
Then, as though the universe wanted to balance the scales, I got forty-five minutes with my cousin in Australia. The time zones bent our days in opposite directions, but her voice came through steady, grounding, like we were sharing the same kitchen. We laughed, swapped stories, and stitched the ordinary details back into something extraordinary—because when you share them across oceans, they become sacred.
Not long after, I was pulled into another world: a conversation with someone I always look forward to speaking with, no matter what’s happening in either of our lives. She’s a client, yes, and a therapist, but most importantly, a friend. We always laugh, she lets me babble on without judgment, and somewhere between the tangents she drops wisdom like breadcrumbs, leading me to steadier ground. She’s a mentor without calling herself one, a gem of a human who somehow leaves me lighter than when I answered the call. Even the breeze seemed to pause and carry her laughter across the room.
Then came yet another world entirely—the architect, calm and exact, ready to navigate the labyrinth that is the Department of Buildings website. Together we zigzagged through tabs designed by someone who clearly disliked both buildings and departments. But the real personal victory? I finally learned how to share my screen on Google Meet. For a woman who walked across America, you’d think this would be simple. And yet there I was, sweating like it was Louisiana in July, clicking every wrong button until the little green “You’re presenting” banner finally appeared like confetti. Triumph. The breeze applauded, fluttering through the apartment as though it understood the magnitude of the moment.
Once my screen was finally unlocked, the architect zipped through permits with ease, while I sat half proud, half exposed, marveling at how such a small discovery could feel like such a win. That moment summed up the whole morning: triumph braided with humility, all underscored by the city’s horns and drills drifting in through the windows.
Four different lives before noon. One chasing bureaucracy, one catching up with family across the world, one tumbling between mentorship, friendship, and therapy, and one learning how to survive the digital maze with the help of an architect. And through it all, that breeze—steady, mischievous, alive—kept reminding me that the city doesn’t just hum outside; it moves right through you if you let it.
Life is strange, yes. But yesterday, it felt symphonic. And maybe that’s all the score I need to carry me through the day.