On Settling Down

After decades of running, I finally found what I've been looking for.

It was a strange day to bid farewell to New York City, my home for more than fifteen years. It's where I met Eliza, where we became parents, where I got sober, and where I unraveled decades of socialization to discover myself. I have a deep love and reverence for the city—it’s a part of me.

As we packed our belongings in the car and prepared to say goodbye to the life we built there, the universe painted a surreal scene. The burnt orange skies glowed darkly above me, the acrid scent of smoldering soot permeated the air, every breath stifled. The smoke and haze enveloped the buildings and city blocks, like a clinging heaviness over the city I’d known.

Glancing up Broadway for a final time before we hit the road, I knew I loved this city—I wasn’t running away from anything, but running toward something I’ve been craving my entire life.

As we made our way out of the city, the Holland Tunnel loomed ahead, its entrance ready to swallow us and bring us one step closer to our new life, upstate. A profound ache nestled within my heart—a somber realization that a significant life chapter was drawing to an end while the planet was also on fire.

Sitting in rush hour traffic, I couldn’t help but reflect on the days leading up to the move. Time seemed to slow down so I could soak in the surroundings and pay homage to my journey. Everywhere I turned, nostalgia: the yoga studio where I met Eliza, the office where I got my start, and the church where I attended my first AA meeting. It was remarkable how effortlessly scores of old memories flooded back. Time felt more easeful, and my awareness sharpened, resurfacing every detail with renewed clarity.

As we pushed further north on the New Jersey Turnpike, the city gradually receded into the distance, vanishing in my rearview mirror. Despite the growing distance between the city and me, the lingering effects of this sentimental blitz continued to fill my senses, serving as a poignant reminder of how the city shaped my life and who I have become. 

This is it. This is it. I began to hear these words reverberate in my head. This is it. 

This is what? Sitting with this question, no answer immediately rose to the surface, but I could sense something wanted to emerge from the depths of my being. 

As I tuned into the sensations in my body, I didn’t feel heaviness in my chest or butterflies in my stomach. I continued to scan for clues, moving my awareness and attention up and down my torso and back, until I began to feel something warm emanating from my heart. As I sat with this sensation it began to morph and move to the far reaches of my extremities and back to the center of my being. Though I couldn't quite put a name to the sensation, there was an innate understanding within me that whatever it was, it was good.

This is it. 

This is where I’m going to raise my family. This is the culmination of 20 years of hard work. This is the life I’ve created for myself. This is going to be my future.

And then it hit me. 

This is the place I’ve longed for my whole life—home.

Always Running

For my entire life, I’ve been in a constant state of motion, moving from one place to another, never feeling quite settled. It’s as if movement was programmed into my life by circumstances beyond my control and eventually by my own design.

My first memories began to form when our family relocated from Manhattan Beach, California back to my birthplace of Swampscott, Massachusetts. Shortly after the move, my parents gathered the family in our living room and dropped an unexpected bombshell whose impact would reverberate within me for decades: they were getting a divorce. As soon as the fallout of those words settled into my still-developing brain, I instinctively darted out the back door and into the woods on the edge of our property, seeking solace to process what I had just heard. I was too young to make sense of it, but I knew it was profound.

As a result, from the age of five until my high school graduation, my life revolved around shuttling between two households. Weekdays were spent with Mom and the weekends were spent with Dad. Movement was programmed into my life at a very young age.

Throughout my childhood, the very notion of home was marked by a pervasive sense of confusion and isolation. Mom worked two physically demanding jobs to maintain the roof over our heads and ensure there was food on the table. The presence of adults and supervision was scarce, so my brothers and I had the freedom to navigate and make sense of the world as we saw fit. We had free rein as Mom struggled to find the time and energy to discipline us. On the other hand, Dad’s home was characterized by structure, authority, and control. If we didn’t play by his rules, we were often met with explosive verbal outbursts or sometimes a backhander, which he affectionately called a love tap. He had very little patience when things didn’t go exactly to his liking. These contrasting environments made it challenging to find a sense of stability and normalcy at home during the most formative years of my life.

The constant shuffle persisted even throughout my college years, as I found myself bouncing between various campuses and cities. It was a whirlwind journey that took me from Springfield College in Western Massachusetts to Northeastern University in Boston, then to Sarasota for an internship, back to Boston for classes, then to Seattle for yet another internship, and back to Boston to finish college. In those five years, I lived in four cities, four dorms, three apartments, two corporate housing complexes, and even a hostel. 

This would be a glimpse into the life that awaited me for the next two decades. Following graduation, I moved west and spent three magical years in Seattle, followed by just one year in the bustling streets of New York City. Then, I returned to Boston for another three-year period to pursue what I thought was my dream job. However, visions of becoming a VC and the magnetic pull of New York City drew me back, where I would remain for nearly fifteen years. Amidst these transitions, I also embarked on a two-year long-distance relationship, which added its own layer of complexity to my journey.

During these years, I moved into and out of a total of thirteen apartments. Additionally, we purchased a home nestled in the majestic Hudson Valley, where we spent weekends and vacations for the past eight years. Not only was there movement year to year, but there was constant movement every week between the city and the woods. 

The pace for twenty-five years has been unrelenting, a continuous ebb and flow of movements, transitions, and adjustments. I built a life for myself in a state of perpetual motion, with little sense of rootedness. The constant shuffle of places and experiences became the norm, as I adapted to new cities and neighborhoods, embraced fresh beginnings, and bid farewell to familiar landscapes. The feeling of stillness and settling felt elusive, replaced by a comfort in and desire for exploration, adventure, and movement. This perpetual motion allowed me to cultivate a dynamic perspective and openness to possibilities, and embrace the fluidity of life. But it also left me always unsettled, without some peace inside me.

The further we climbed on the New York State Throughway—as the city was engulfed in smoke, and the places I knew so well transformed before my eyes—it occurred to me that I’ve never had a singular center of gravity that I call home. No move has felt permanent. Nothing ever has felt permanent.

As we pulled into our driveway with the moving truck in tow, I was both tired and ready. Tired of moving and running for so long, ready to lay my roots down and allow them to settle deep into the earth.

This is it. Home. Settling.

A Deeper Kind of Settling

In the days that followed the move, the words settling down have been reverberating in my mind, leading me to contemplate the nature of this new phase unfolding in my life. Every time I step outside, I feel my nervous system relax as I breathe in the fresh mountain air and take in the towering pines that surround my house. There’s something deep inside of me—wise and intuitive—that knows I’m exactly where I’m meant to be at this point in my life. 

With every box we unpack, cubby we reorganize, and room we rearrange, I feel a deeper sense of settling around and within me. Despite having lived upstate part-time for eight years, this experience feels unique, special and fresh. We’re carefully preparing a sacred container to envelop and nurture our family, supporting the growth of new roots beneath us. 

Home.

Throughout my life, I’ve said yes to many jobs, apartments, and relationships out of convenience, a desire for comfort, and the mere sense of security they offered. In the wake of these decisions, I always experienced a sense of cognitive dissonance and discontent, forced to settle in to what I had settled for.  

Where I find myself today, there’s no cognitive dissonance or constriction in my body. I’m not playing Monday morning quarterback and asking how the hell I got here. I’m not filled with FOMO. I’m not grieving the life I left behind or that could have been. I don’t feel the heaviness of regret or the unease of anxiety. I’m accepting and honoring the closed doors, abandoned old dreams and identities, and the once cherished relationships that will eventually, naturally wither. 

New growth is made possible when old growth is cut away, allowing roots to deepen. I began to set roots more than a decade ago when I proposed to Eliza, and those roots grew deeper when we decided to have kids. Now, as we walk away from old dreams and close off some opportunities, many new ones emerge. There continues to be an undeniable sense of newness and opportunity in the air, a palpable energy. I can sense the arrival of new adventures and experiences on the horizon—in fact, they’re already here.

Even though it’s a familiar place, my perspective has shifted, revealing a whole new set of possibilities. I see our home with fresh eyes, discovering unnoticed features that somehow eluded me for years—the soft light that fills our dining room at sunrise, the faint cracks on our living room ceiling, and the intricate pattern in the hardwood floor that was hidden beneath a rug all this time. 

As I look around the house, I envision countless precious moments to come—my daughter’s first steps, festive holiday feasts, and cozy winter evenings by the fireplace telling stories. I can sense the laughter, tears, and celebrations that will reverberate within these walls and reinforce the roots we’re laying down below us.

Not only is our home transforming before my eyes, but so am I. The more time away from the city, the more I can feel this change settle into my bones. I feel light. I feel calm. I feel clear. I feel at peace. I feel aligned. I feel grounded. I feel whole. I feel acceptance. I feel anchored to this moment, to my family, and to our land. It’s a whole-body, whole-world yes.

In all of this rightness, in this process of settling our roots, I feel more present than I ever have, and more desire to be. This is the time to slow down and be intentional about the kind of home and multidimensional life I now get to create and be part of. 

With our roots firmly planted, we now have the opportunity to use our home as an expression of our deepest values and beliefs. It calls us to spend moments of quiet observation and reflection, to immerse ourselves in the intelligent rhythms of nature, and to cultivate a connection with the natural world that surrounds us. It’s an invitation to become active participants in a community, where we get to forge new relationships, deepen old ones, and contribute our time and energy to its growth and betterment. Most importantly, this newfound stability provides the gift of spending even more time with our girls, becoming a consistent and nurturing presence in their lives. 

Finally Home

Home is where I return after a long day. Home is where I go for safety, comfort and a hug. Home is where I rest and recover when I am injured or worn down. Home is where I care for my mind, body and spirit. Home is where I express myself without constraints. Home is where I fully embrace who I am. Home is where I’m accepted and feel accepted. Home is where I express my love to Eliza and the girls day after day. Home is where I watch them learn, grow and develop into remarkable humans. Home is where I support and encourage them no matter what. Home is where I can always return for shelter, warmth and love. Home is where I cook for and nourish family and friends. Home is where I am one with nature. Home is where I’m part of something far bigger than myself.

After running for all of these years, I finally have that center of gravity I’ve been craving and missing my entire life. I’m settling in and settling down. The wait has been worth it. 

I’m home.