The City That Broke Me & Made Me Whole
STILLNESS: Whiffs of Memory, Waves of Hope
Ah…Here We Go Again.
This morning, I stood over the mess of clothes in my room, anxiety bubbling in my chest as I stared down the task of packing up my life.
My lease is ending, and I’m heading home.
Again.
The last time I made this decision was January 20th of this year (and we all know how that turned out….)
Back then, I thought I’d only be gone for a month. I cleaned everything out, left my space spotless, and walked away, believing it was just a brief pause. But as soon as I left, chaos erupted. What was supposed to be a month stretched into February, then March, and eventually mid-May.
Those months unraveled everything—not just the chaos around me, but within me.
It set off a chain reaction of questions and doubts, forcing me to confront the foundation of my life. I questioned everything: my purpose, my people, my future.
Were the dreams I’d clung to still possible?
Was NYC even the place for me?
And when I returned to the city, it wasn’t with clarity but with loneliness. My old life felt shattered, and I was left sifting through the pieces, unsure how to rebuild.
The Shift: From Breaking to Building
Everything began to change in September.
Life didn’t magically become easier—it’s been an uphill battle—but something shifted.
The time I spent unraveling my place in this world cleared space for clarity. I started to understand myself more deeply—what I needed, what I wanted to build, and the kind of life I wanted to live.
I began aligning myself with the right people, places, and energies—those who dream boldly and contribute fearlessly to the collective. These connections became my anchors, revitalizing my hope and reminding me why I fell in love with this city in the first place <3
NYC, the city that broke me, also revealed who I am.
It tore apart the illusions I’d built around myself and forced me to confront my essence. In the pieces, I found my strength, my vision, and my purpose.
Now, as I sit here packing again, it feels different. This time, I don’t want to leave.
My chapter here isn’t over—it’s just beginning.
There’s excitement, fire, and a deep belief that I’m on the brink of something extraordinary. But alongside that belief is doubt. I don’t want to repeat January’s chaos.
Yet deep down, I know: my place is here. My time is now.
Meditation and Memory: The Scent of My Grandfather
When I feel conflicted, I turn to meditation.
Stillness has a way of making the chaos (and the voices) quiet just enough for clarity to rise. But today, clarity came through something unexpected—a scent.
As I sat in stillness, I caught the faint smell of my grandfather—a scent I hadn’t thought of in years.
I haven’t spoken to or seen my grandfather in years, but that scent was undeniable. It clung to me, so I called my dad. I asked him about my grandfather—not the man I’d known, but the man who raised him. What was he like?
My dad shared stories I’d never heard before, fragments of a person I’d only ever seen in pieces. I realized how much of my grandfather I’d reduced to his shadows—the sternness, the quiet judgment. Meanwhile, with my dad, I only ever saw his light—his patience, his care, his endless love.
But the truth is, they are more alike than I ever realized. Two sides of the same story.
Then my dad told me something unexpected: my grandfather loved reading, especially Russian literature. That stopped me in my tracks. I’m somewhat familiar with the genre but never truly explored it.
As I dove into the history of these works, something clicked.
Stories, Histories, and Hope
Russian literature carries a haunting weight.
Written in times of profound upheaval, it captures the tension between survival and resilience, between despair and hope. These authors lived through circumstances I don’t take lightly—suppressive regimes, fractured societies, and the crushing weight of uncertainty.
Yet, they turned their lived experiences into art, into stories that carried meaning and purpose far beyond their time.
As I delved into their works, I saw parallels—not just to my own life but to the world we’re living in now. The weight of uncertainty, the fractures in relationships, and the urgent need to find clarity amidst chaos feel as relevant today as they must have felt then.
Their stories reminded me of the power of narrative: to capture history, to give voice to pain, and to offer hope even in the darkest times.
Packing with Purpose, Stories We Carry
This time, as I pack up my room, it feels different.
Packing is no longer just about organizing belongings—it’s about reckoning with the stories I carry, the ones I tell myself, and the ones I hope to write.
Every item I pack, every choice I make, reflects my narrative—a deliberate decision about what to carry forward and what to leave behind, all in pursuit of building a life rooted in clarity and intention.
Back in January, I packed with uncertainty, leaving with no clear sense of who I was or where I was going.
This time, I’m leaving sure of myself—sure of who I am, what I want to build, and the impact I want to make. I’m leaving with an unshakable belief in myself, in Allah (shoutout to big man on top), and in the faith that everything I’m working toward is aligning in ways I cannot yet see.
Packing now feels like hope—not blind optimism, but a deep trust that the stories I’ve lived and the dreams I carry are leading me somewhere meaningful.
It’s about stepping forward, not in fear of the unknown, but in excitement for what’s to come.
The Point of Stories
One day, someone might ask about me, just as I asked my dad about my grandfather.
Maybe they’ll catch a scent that reminds them of me, hear a song that reminds them of me, or stumble across something I’ve written or created. And maybe it’ll give them hope.
That’s why stories matter.
They hold memory, meaning, and hope.
They remind us that even in uncertainty, we are never truly alone.
As I sit here, conflicted but hopeful, I choose to believe in a better outcome than the one I feared in January.
I trust that the universe will deliver the people, experiences, love, and abundance I’ve called into my life.
I trust in the stories I’m writing and the ones yet to be told.
Because stories hold power.
And more than that, they hold hope.
‘til next time,
Manny