Writing With Abandon

Reflections and ramblings about life as an educator, writer, reader, knitter, and over-thinker. Trying to do the writing only I can do.

recent posts

about

I’m Amy. A born and raised New Yorker, currently living in Miami. Here to reflect on my experiences as an educator and learner, working things out as I write.

  • Limits

    How will I choose to use my time?

    (This time being the 8 minutes before my workday begins.)

    I’m choosing to slice. I saw Ana’s call in our KLA Slicers WhatsApp group chat. I saw Kim’s slice waiting to be read in my inbox.

    I have Oliver Burkeman’s Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals sitting next to me, which is funny because I read his Meditations for Mortals at the same time last year (I remember, because I sliced about it).

    I’ve been meditating on his words just in the first few chapters, not that they’re completely new: “Our days are spent trying to ‘get through’ tasks, in order to get them ‘out of the way,’ with the result that we live mentally in the future, waiting for when we’ll finally get around to what really matters” (12-13) and “Nobody in the history of humanity has ever achieved ‘work-life balance,’ whatever that might be” (13).

    There’s always a never-ending list of things to get done, and the reality is that we will never get it done because we don’t have infinite time with which to do it. We get four thousand weeks, if we’re lucky.

    After book club on Sunday, Kim, Nayelis, Gianna and I walked around Books & Books chatting and picking up books to add to our stacks.

    “There’s too many books and not enough time!” One of us said.

    “I know!!” Another of us moaned.

    When I got home that afternoon, I turned on the audiobook version of the book I was reading so I could manage to clean up the kitchen, cook myself dinner, and then clean up those dishes too. I found myself happily sitting on the couch, knitting as I listened to the voice actors, who were doing an excellent job.

    This is really nice, I thought.

    The same that I think as P and I read the interactive Harry Potter series to each other.

    Reading is one of those ways I think I’d like to spend the limited time I have here on this planet.

    Writing, too.

    I’m ready for the challenge, though a bit nervous about getting it done.

    Is it year 5 for me? Five years of slicing already? Or is it four?

    8:29. Time to post it!

  • Not Quite Fainting

    I get it from my momma — a flight response when faced with certain things, usually medical, often at an unideal time. I start to feel woozy, dizzy; it’s hard to concentrate on the person speaking. My anxious imagination starts spinning, thinking I am in danger alongside the other person. My heart rate and blood pressure drop; my body gets coated in a cold, slick sweat; and I’m told I get as white as a sheet, with absolutely no color in my face. I’m usually sitting when this happens, or I get myself to a place where I can sit and let it pass over me, so that I don’t flat out faint. Put my head between my knees. Breathe until I’m, somewhat shakily, returning to that state where my blood pressure is normal and I have some color back.

    I grew up hearing the story about my mom picking up my dad at the dentist when she was pregnant. Sitting in the patient’s chair, he turned to her with the gauze in his mouth and said something unintelligible, and the next thing she knew, she had woken up in the chair.

    While I’ve never blacked out like that, I’ve experienced this nearly fainting misery a handful of times.

    When I thought it was so cool to watch how the nurses took my blood as a young teen, then realized no matter how cool I thought it was, my body didn’t agree with my brain. They kept me seated for a while and gave me a lollipop.

    When I got my ears pierced the first time at Claire’s on Broadway at age 13. I sat cross legged in the window while my sweat washed over me.

    When I was getting a biopsy of a freckle on my foot at the dermatologist, and accidentally watched, which is when I learned that alcohol pads can help.

    When Greg fainted in a tiny bar in Madrid with me and Reeta after eating croquetas because I stupidly didn’t know they were made with bechamel, and he is celiac. He stood up rigidly and fell back like a log, and someone shouted that he was having a seizure. I told the bartender to call an ambulance and Reeta to go back to the apartment to find his passport, and once the EMTs had arrived, my body finally reacted and I told them, “I think maybe it’s something we both ate.” It wasn’t.

    When I fell off a scooter four and a half years ago the summer I moved to Miami, sprained my ankle and scraped up my elbow and hip badly. I took one look at my elbow, thought I saw bone, and proceeded to melt. I never went to urgent care and didn’t treat the wound correctly (hydrogen peroxide is not meant to be applied more than once), and now I still have a scar that looks like a bruise.

    When last summer, at the Globe Theatre, P and I went to see the The Merry Wives of Windsor for ten pounds, standing in the Yard on a hot as all hell day, shifting from foot to foot, looking up at the actors in their costumes. Then, out of nowhere, smack. A teenaged boy who had been standing just in front of us fainted backwards and hit his head on the pavement. All the emergency workers rushed toward him and carried him out and the actors kept acting because “the show must go on.” I told P, “I can’t be here anymore,” and we sat down on some picnic benches outside while I drank water, and then we left.

    So I shouldn’t have been surprised when it happened yesterday, after P had gotten his wisdom teeth extracted, and I came into the room to find him still hooked up, coming to from the general anesthesia, cracking jokes like always. The nurse, Karyni, was giving me all the instructions when I started to feel myself go.

    “Do you have an alcohol pad that I can sniff?” I asked.

    “Why, do you feel dizzy?” she said, her attention now shifting fully to me. “

    “I’m gonna be okay I think,” I replied, knowing full well that I wouldn’t be.

    “You’re white as a sheet, let’s get you to another room,” she decided, and grabbed me by the arm to go monitor me in a separate room from P. She put the chair flat and tilted it back so blood could rush back to my head, stuck a blood pressure cuff on me, and a pulse monitor, and we talked for the next 20 minutes as she held the alcohol pad in front of my nose and I slowly recovered.

    “Don’t feel guilty,” she told me, because she knew I did. “It just means you care. Do you have someone who can pick you guys up?” I knew I had another emergency contact who could help in this moment: Ana. Her husband, Tim, was not too far away, he’d come get us. Tim literally to the rescue.

    When I was feeling better, the chair almost upright, they wheeled Patrick in.

    “What happened?” He asked, still slurring a bit. “Am I gonna have to take care of you now?”

    The nurse offered to take a picture of us. “Go on then,” he said, “it’ll be funny.”

    Later, in texts to his family, he wrote alongside the photo, “She properly tried to upstage me.”

    I called my mom later when I went back to pick up the car: “Will this ever get better?” I asked. She told me it has only just started to for her.

    Luckily, once it passes, it passes. I should probably keep some candies or smelling salts in my purse at all times though, just in case.

    Happy to report both patients were doing much better by the afternoon.

  • Emergency Contact

    “You are our emergency contact ❤️” Gi texts me, with a photo of her computer screen.

    She and Jason are completing their condo application — they’re moving from their apartment for the first time since I’ve known her — and they need to provide at least two emergency contacts.

    I made Gi my emergency contact as soon as I had separated from my ex. I went into every account that could require one and added her name and number.

    “Relationship?”

    “Friend.”

    It was the first time I’d used a friend as an emergency contact, rather than a parent or a partner. But it made sense, given that I was living nowhere near my parents, and if there was anyone that I wanted to be there for me during an emergency, it was her.

    Heck, she held my hand during a skin excision surgery I had! Played Taylor Swift music videos for me while watching the doctor work. She didn’t get grossed out at all. She was curious.

    “She just cut a circle around it, then picked it up like — plop!” she showed me later with her fingers pinching and plucking up. She has a way of showing, not telling.

    Gi has been like home since that dinner we had downtown four years ago: Spanish tapas, getting drunk on wine and sharing vulnerable secrets with each other. That dinner sealed the deal. We were destined to become friends.

    “Amy, Amy, Amy,” Jason used to tease her, because we were always talking.

    Their apartment has been my second home here in Miami. I’ve spent countless days there, just lazing around on the couch, snuggling Oscar, snacking on food, lounging by the pool, watching TV, talking, talking, and talking. I haven’t gone there as often as I’d like to lately. Last year was a busy and tough one for both of us, and now I’ve moved further away.

    But we made plans this evening to spend Sunday together: first SoulCycle, then shower and lunch, then learning how to crochet together with our Woobles amigurumi kits (funnily enough, they make a set of dinosaurs and two of them are named Oscar and Phoebe, after our dogs!).

    I’ll make sure to soak up all the bits of her apartment that I love so much while I’m there. All her books. The soft gray sofa. The little notions she’s slowly but surely placed around the home to turn it from a bachelor pad into as close to cottage core as you can get in an apartment with tile floors in Miami.

    And I can’t wait to help her decorate her new apartment, just like she helped me in my last few homes.

    So yeah, she’s my emergency contact. And I’m proud to be hers!

    But sadly, I don’t know the movie you’re thinking of, Gi.

  • Showing up to the mat

    Since January 1st, I’ve been reading and journaling alongside The Book of Alchemy by Suleika Jaouad. Described as a “guide to the art of journaling,” Jaouad’s book offers itself as your companion if you wish to complete a 100-day journaling project — there are ten sets of ten short essays by various writers, followed by a prompt related to that essay. It’s been mostly enjoyable, and I’ve thought about using it for my March slice of life challenge, though not every prompt inspires me to write each day.

    Like today’s, for example: to write about an important first, and then “consider all the greater meaning embedded in that moment.”

    That feels a bit too heavy for this morning when I only have ten minutes to slice before I settle down to work.

    Something in today’s essay, though, did stand out to me. The essay was “Ghost Bread,” by Angelique Stevens. In it, she writes:

    I tell my students that everything in their writing should bring with it some greater meaning: every word some greater depth, every character some greater representation, every object some greater symbolism. As writers, it’s our job to make sure our words do some heavy lifting. (55)

    I guess on the one hand, I agree with her. This is part of the revision process: cutting and paring back on the fluff, leaving only the words and sentences that actually bring something to the piece you’re working on.

    But on the other hand, I’m not so sure. If the goal, such as for a daily journaling challenge or for the slice of life challenge, is to just get something on the page, then this pressure of every word capturing some greater depth could very well scare someone off of writing any word at all!

    What about “even just one sentence,” as Ana shares in Tiny January?

    I know that Stevens’ students are likely university-age or older and have chosen a career as writers, but even then — shouldn’t there be some slack given to them? Shouldn’t they be encouraged to “just write,” even if it’s a sentence? And then, later, maybe go back and think about the meaning? And that it’s okay, too, if there isn’t a greater meaning? If it’s just a sentence, just you showing up to the mat?

  • Center Stage

    On the team Slack channel:

    [2:34 PM] Me: Omg I’m dying

    [2:34 PM] Me: Their video kept zooming all over the place

    [2:34 PM] Me: C didn’t even get a word in

    [2:34 PM] C: The constant panning and zooming of the camera was so funny

    [2:34 PM] Me: I had to really hold it together

    [2:34 PM] C: me too

    [2:34 PM] C: felt like I was watching The Office

    As I type I find myself uncontrollably laughing, tears streaming down my cheeks.

    For the last 45 minutes, C and I had been in a call with a client who hadn’t disabled that dreaded Center Stage feature that so many Mac users have.

    “Why is it zooming in on my face?” our client asked as the meeting began. But we had business to discuss! So the meeting continued, with no real issue, as for much of it I was sharing my screen.

    Except in those final moments, when I stopped sharing, and the other person in our client’s office started speaking.

    She was standing off to the side and behind our client.

    Center Stage took quick action — it panned to center the speaker in full view, then zoomed in to her face, slowly, as she spoke.

    I swallowed the laugh that dared to escape from me.

    I looked at C’s video and saw her sitting calmly.

    Amy, don’t you dare, I told myself as I nodded and smiled, gripping my thighs beneath the desk and out of sight of my own camera.

    Center Stage zoomed out and panned back to our client as we said our goodbyes.

    I clicked the button to end the call.

    The laugh that had been threatening to escape burbled out nervously with a huge breath, and I immediately went to Slack to document what had happened.

  • Earth School

    This week, I finished reading All the Way to the River, Liz Gilbert’s new memoir about love, grief, and addiction.

    Back in the spring, when I’d seen that she was coming to the Arsht Center for a “conversation,” I booked three tickets for Ana, Kim, and I to see her speak. Our tickets included a brief meet and greet as well as a signed copy of the book. I made a calendar event for the evening, November 3rd, and then promptly forgot about it until October or so.

    I wasn’t planning on reading the memoir ahead of the event, since we were going to receive a copy anyway, but Ana forgot that she’d pre-ordered it and read it, and then I figured I could at least listen to some of the audiobook with my Spotify premium membership. So I started it on my daily dog walks, but got a bit turned off by the music, and distracted by Phoebe, and ultimately decided to just wait until the event. I let some critics get in my head too, so headed into the night a bit skeptical, which, combined with work stress, didn’t make me the most receptive audience member.

    The conversation was supposed to begin at 7:30pm, but for the meet and greet, we were required to get there by 5:45pm at the latest, the email said. So we did, and lined up, and I ranted to two of my closest friends as we waited in line to meet Liz.

    When it was our turn, I hoped she would sign my copy of Big Magic (my favorite book of hers), but it wasn’t a signing kind of thing.

    “Have we met?” she asked me when we hugged.

    I told her we hadn’t.

    Me, Liz, and Kim

    They snapped our photo, and then we went to wait in the lobby for another hour or so before the event began.

    And once it began? Whoa.

    Liz is a public speaker like few I’ve ever seen. She absolutely knows how to tell a story and engage her audience, all while remaining one hundred percent authentic.

    It truly was like a conversation with her. The meet and greet was just a photo op, but this? This was an intimate conversation. There weren’t that many of us.

    Liz spoke about creativity and love and the process of writing this memoir. She spoke about getting to a point in your life where your past lives and loves are just a distant memory. She made us laugh, she made us tear up, and she made me nudge Ana for a stack of post-its I knew she’d have and Kim for a pen so I could take some notes.

    Some small nuggets of gold I was able to jot down (some from Liz, and some that Liz quoted from others — these are not necessarily exact words, but include some exact words!):

    • We have one planet, but 8 billion worlds. Art is: take me into your world.
    • In all art, you’re revealing yourself — you’re exposing yourself, but you’re on a nude beach! What a critic is is someone who goes to the nude beach, fully clothed a with a telephoto lens, and scrutinizes you, then decides what it is. They say, I’ll tell you what she looks like naked, without taking off a stitch of their own clothing! “Get off the beach!”
    • You only need to know what you think of your art. Criticism and flattery go down the same drain — both are destabilizing. (Credited to Georgia O’Keefe)
    • The universe hates secrets.
    • Rayya would always say, since the truth is where we’re gonna end up anyway, why don’t we just start there?
    • Grief is a bill that you have to pay eventually. You can pay it all at once or in installments, but you have to pay it.
    • Be vulnerable enough to do your learning in public.

    We left the evening absolutely inspired, and also exhausted from Daylight Savings Time.

    As soon as I finished my next book, I launched back into Liz’s new memoir, this time with the hard, signed copy. I started from the beginning. I finished it this past Sunday, a gorgeous day, sitting on my balcony with Phoebe at my feet.

    Something that has really been sitting with me is her notion that “Earth is nothing but a school for souls” (48). Liz writes:

    In my life, I have certainly found that the Earth School model is a useful thought exercise during times of darkness, pain, and betrayal—for it takes me out of a victim mentality and offers up a worldview that feels far more empowering and fascinating than the limiting, anguishing cry of “Why me?!”

    A more fruitful question than “Why me?” could be “How might this terrible situation be perfectly designed to help me to evolve?”

    Because what if that’s really what it’s all about?

    And what if we are all here to help each other evolve? (49)

    I’ve found this incredibly useful lately. So I leave it here with you.

    What is a terrible situation that was perfectly designed to help you evolve? And maybe, if you’re going through one now, you can reframe your “why me?” thoughts à la Liz.

  • 10 Minutes in a Lyft

    I have 10 minutes left of my ride to my tutoring session, so I thought I’d try to squeeze a slice in.

    It’s been odd weather the last few days, humid and breezy, sprinkles of rain, likely because of Hurricane Melissa. My heart hurts for Jamaica and Cuba and Hispaniola. It’s useful to know when hurricanes are coming and at what speed, but when you are just watching and waiting for the devastation… it’s terrifying. Reminds me of the movie Melancholia which I was weirdly obsessed with in college. Knowing the planet was coming to destroy you and not being able to do anything about it.

    7 minutes.

    I found a knitting club at a local bookstore that meets on Tuesday evenings, but I don’t think I’ll go tonight. I’m exhausted, and I’ve been getting a ton of knitting in, like in the string quartet concert we went to this weekend. I’ll try again next week!

    I did set some craft goals of learning how to continental knit and crochet. Time will tell when I’ll start those. Soon?

    5 minutes.

    Yesterday I had my annual mammogram and breast ultrasound. I arrived ten minutes early and was surprised to see there were already a bunch of ladies ahead of me. They called us all in at the same time. We took turns in the two changing rooms and put on the blue robes. The waiting room was freezing, luckily I had a sweater. The tech who did my mammogram spoke to me in Spanish and pressed my boob in between the plastic slabs before SMOOSH!

    There’s got to be a better way to do this.

    4 minutes.

    I’ve started driving again, a little bit at a time. Sunday morning grocery runs after I drop P off, early enough that there are hardly cars on the road. Monday evenings for my massage therapy or Fridays for tutoring E. Easy, quick drives. I still jump at some point every time. But I’m getting more comfortable.

    Otherwise I take Lyfts, like this one, and try to distract myself on my phone instead of watching the road.

    1 minute.

    I did it! I’m going to text my writing partner and see if she can squeeze in a 10-minute slice too.

  • Halloween in the Neighborhood

    I grew up in New York City, so Halloween looked a little different from the movies I grew up watching in the 90s, but it was still my favorite holiday. As a kid with a serious sweet tooth, Halloween was the ultimate event of the year. I got to dress up in a cool costume AND end the night with a stash of candy to munch on over the next month?

    We went trick-or-treating every year, usually with my best friend Rosie and her mom and sister. We often coordinated our costumes, and there was always a homemade element thanks to our moms’ craft skills (I think my favorite costume of all time is still the felt candy corn dress that my mom sewed for me). They would meet us at our house, we’d snap a photo on the stoop, and then set off down Amsterdam Avenue to start our trick-or-treating adventure. After hitting up all the stores, we’d head towards a couple of streets where we knew there were brownstones with spooky decor that would allow neighborhood kids to visit. I’d end the night exhausted and with a sugar stomachache. It was the best!

    Somewhere during my tenure as a teacher though, I started to become a holiday grinch. I don’t think it happened in my first few years. And then at Samara, we had a Halloween character parade, which was pretty cool, though a bit tiring. But by the time I was at KLA, I couldn’t handle the energy that every holiday meant, especially Halloween. School started in August and students would already be talking about and planning their costumes. By the time Halloween actually rolled around, I’d be dreading it, and on the day itself, I would just be trying to make it through. And if we had school the following day? Forget about it — the kids would be zombies, with full-on candy hangovers. Last year I was actually relieved that I got to miss Halloween at school because I was home sick.

    Today on my afternoon walk with Phoebe, though, I started thinking about Halloween like I used to.

    Our building sits right on the border between the City of Miami and Coral Gables, and our balcony overlooks a small gated community that reminds me of what those neighborhoods in the early 90s may have been like — kids bike and play basketball and sell lemonade, neighbors wave at you and say hello as you pass, and the Halloween decorations are on point. In fact, some of them are quite creepy and have given me and Phoebe a scare.

    Like this skeleton which I thought was an emaciated child swinging! For Phoebe, it was a skeleton/ghoul creeping out of a hedge that made her jump as though she’d seen a real ghost (though for a dog this anxious, getting spooked isn’t that abnormal!). As I walked, I thought about trick-or-treating with Patrick’s daughter or our own future kid. I started getting… excited about Halloween again.

    I’m not sure whether to credit leaving teaching or our new neighborhood, but I welcome the new perspective! Good riddance, grinch!

  • Alive

    It happened so quickly.

    Chappell Roan playing on the car radio, me smiling and belting out the lyrics, just a few blocks away from my acupuncturist’s, where I couldn’t wait to update her on my progress. I cruised through the intersection, saw the car across from me signal to go left, then saw it coming closer as it turned instead of yielding for me.

    It was too close.

    I knew it was going to happen before it happened.

    No! I remember thinking as I tried to switch my foot to the brake pedal.

    But it all just happened so quickly.

    The impact, my body bracing, the loud smack of our cars as their noses hit, the way the collision shook everything inside of me.

    The cars stopped. I lifted my head.

    I was alive. I was okay.

    I could see the damage through my window. Both front ends smashed in. The other driver’s airbags deployed.

    Shit. SHIT.

    The first thought I had was that I’d destroyed Patrick’s car. He’s gonna kill me.

    The other driver was a girl, young, redheaded. She was on the phone. Where was my phone? I saw it on the floor in front of the passenger’s seat, next to my sunglasses which must have flown off my face with the impact. I unbuckled my seatbelt, leaned down to grab it—ow, that hurts—and then grabbed the door handle. The door was stuck. I wedged it open enough to climb out.

    I stood, shaky, on the cement. My chest and back were tight.

    I called Patrick.

    “Hey love.”

    “Hi. I got into a car accident, I’m so sorry, it’s bad. I ruined your car.”

    “Are you okay??”

    “Yes, I’m okay. I’m so sorry, I don’t know what to do.”

    “Don’t worry about that now. Is the other driver okay?”

    “Yeah, I think so. She’s on the phone in the driver’s seat.”

    “Okay.”

    I told him where I was so he could uber to me and then called 911. The policeman who picked up asked me a lot of different questions.

    “Are you hurt?”

    “I don’t know, my chest and back feel really tight.”

    “Would you like us to send the fire department and paramedics to examine you?”

    “Yes? I think that’s probably best.”

    “Did your airbags deploy?“

    I looked around. What the heck? “No.”

    “Was anyone thrown from the vehicle?”

    “No.”

    “Are there any other passengers in your vehicle or the other vehicle?”

    “No, just me and the other driver.”

    “Can you see any visible signs of injury or blood?”

    I finally got her to give me a thumbs up. “No, I think she’s okay.”

    “Until the paramedics arrive, please move to a safe location away from any oncoming traffic. Do not drink or eat anything until they arrive as it might make you sick. Help will be there shortly.”

    While I was on the phone, an older black man who was on the corner had come to the scene to check if we were okay. I gave him a thumbs up while he checked on the other driver and helped her out of her car. As soon as she got out and I was off the phone, I moved towards her.

    “I’m so sorry,” she spit out between sobs, her face red and blotchy.

    “Don’t worry,” I told her, hugging her. “They’re just cars. We are both okay, we’re both alive. That’s what matters. I’ve called 911 and told them to send the paramedics.”

    “Me too,” she said.

    The man, Avery, helped walk us to the corner while we waited for the paramedics. He focused on calming her down. She called her parents.

    The paramedics arrived soon after and checked both of us out. They told me the chest pain I was feeling was from the seatbelt whiplash, and that if I was up and walking around, I most likely didn’t need to go to the hospital.

    Thunder rumbled and it started to rain. I asked the paramedics to help me get my umbrella and a couple other things from the car, as it would need to be towed since I couldn’t drive it.

    Her parents arrived soon after. Both very apologetic with me, as it was clear their daughter was at fault. She went to sit in the passenger seat of her parents’ car and I realized then that she was younger than I’d thought. Only 17.

    When Patrick finally got there, he held me in a long hug, careful not to squeeze too tight where I was sore.

    We waited for the police officer to come and make her report, and then for the tow truck to arrive and take our cars away.

    I somehow managed not to cry until we were walking away from it all.

    And that’s it, really, what I need to keep telling myself when the thoughts turn to the crash and the guilt and the fear of what could have happened and the strange confusion of what had: I walked away. I got to walk away. We both did.

    I am alive.

    Thank you, universe, I am alive.

  • Point View

    Point View

    A little over four years ago, in April, I sat by the water in Brickell after dropping my things at the Hampton Inn. It was the night before I spent the day at KLA and gave a demo lesson to my would-be students. The sky was all blues and pinks and the air was humid. My skin was buzzing, my stomach jumbled, and I was trying to imagine what it would be like to live in this new city, one that I had a lot of preconceived notions about.

    Now, Miami is my home (for better or worse). I often find myself complaining about it, or giving a disclaimer when I mention that I live here. But I should probably start changing my thinking about it, because ultimately, it’s my home for the foreseeable future, and I’ve enjoyed my years here so far.

    That day in April set in motion a multitude of positive changes that I could never have expected:

    • I got the job at KLA and spent four incredible years there, learning and growing as an educator and teacher mentor.
    • I built many friendships with incredible women, most of whom I met at KLA.
    • I got better at driving (big old SUVs) amidst the crazy Miami drivers.
    • I started copywriting for a former student’s dad’s business, which turned into a full-blown second job.
    • I ended a long-term relationship and moved into my own apartment, a gorgeous studio within walking distance of work and my best friend’s place.
    • I met my partner, my rock, my best friend. The biggest and best surprise.
    • I became a dog aunt, and later, a dog mom.
    • I made the difficult decision to leave teaching and pursue a different career.
    • I embarked on the journey of healing my mind and body from everything teaching had put it through.
    • I started a new job as client engagement manager for a mission-driven student travel company.

    All of these (and plenty more which I can’t think of right now) had Miami as their backdrop. And funnily enough, this exact spot in Brickell, a block away from my current apartment, this lovely spot by the bay, which I only today realized is named Point View, is a spot I came to again and again—alone, with friends, with dogs, and with my love.

    In two days we’ll move to a different neighborhood, one I’m excited to explore, and a change I’m ready for. But we both agree—we’re going to miss these walks and this view.

    I’m going to miss Point View. I’m so grateful that it’s here, and was here, for me all these years. I wonder where my next spot will be.