Ten Years and a Day

My Grannie read Southern Living magazine. And Better Homes and Gardens. And Women’s Day. When she was finished, she would stack the periodicals in neat piles behind her orange floral sofa where they would patiently wait for me. Whenever I visited Grannie and Grampa, I took great delight in going after those magazines with a pair of scissors—collecting inspiration for my future home. Dreaming of my one-day magical garden. I collected those cutouts in a binder and, later, pasted them tenderly into the pages of a giant, cloth-bound, hard-cover notebook. By that point, I had also started collecting snippets from travel magazines and brochures (but never National Geographic, I learned from my Grampa to venerate the National Geographics), and thus I illustrated the journal of my dream life: My own home and many travel adventures. I would pull that notebook out in dark times, as a bit of hope, and for a select-few trusted confidants, as a peek into the vivid color of my inner-world.

I packed both the binder and the notebook the other day. Our apartment has become a veritable fort of boxes. As I write this, my husband and I are less than one week away from owning our very own house—a beautiful little yellow gem sitting on one whole acre of land. There are fruit trees, berry bushes, two sheds, and room for a large garden! We are moving away from the city, to our own little corner of the world, where we can spread out, breathe deep, and clear a little space in our heads for more imagination. And by living sustainably in this quieter spot, we’ll also be freeing up more money to go and see the rest of the world. In less than one week, I am diving headfirst into my book of pasted photos. All the dreams that have carried me to this moment are coming true.

I am beyond excited about our move, our house—our wonderful life that is now going to be wonderful in completely new ways. I am thrilled for stability, for the chance to create my very own home at last, and for the space and time to dedicate to all the projects I’ve never had the mental or physical space to attempt (like growing a garden, baking bread, and writing more fiction!). I’m looking forward to more fresh air. More trees and fewer cars. The opportunity to find a sense of community in a small town.

But I’m going to miss Boston.

I arrived in the Hub on June 4th, 2012—twenty-five and ready for a new adventure. I loved my life in Texas—my friends and colleagues, my family—though I hated the heat and felt an itch to try something completely different. So many of my friends from school had gone to LA, Chicago, or New York to be amongst great theater and film. My path led me, instead, to Massachusetts. Shortly after I arrived, I took a weekend trip to New York City to see some friends, see some shows, and have some new headshots taken. The moment I stepped out of Penn Station, I knew I’d made the right choice. Boston was a big city but in a smaller way. And in every way, it fit me better than anywhere else I’d tried. Intellectual, but scrappy. Compact enough to walk everywhere, with historically preserved neighborhoods that kept out too many skyscrapers and kept the sky itself visible. The city has changed remarkably in the ten years I’ve lived here, and it has changed me right along with it. I have grown up in Boston.

I will not say it has all been cupcakes and rainbows (though there have certainly been many of both). I have struggled and seen some very low lows in the last decade. But there have been many more joys. I have always loved my surroundings here. The Common and Public Garden. Mount Auburn Cemetery. The red-brick townhomes of Beacon Hill. The triple-deckers and tall ships, the burial grounds, the ocean, the history, the seasons! I moved to New England in part for the fall, but I had never really known the glory of spring until I had been through a winter and thrilled to see the whole world coming back to life. The April daffodils and the May tulips fading into a rich summer green.

I’ve also loved the people. Working as a tour guide, out in the heart of the city day after day, I’ve met some of the most wonderful characters—performers and historians, educators and entrepreneurs—those who made a deep mark in passing, and those who will hopefully stay in my life for years to come.

And then there’s the work. When I first visited Boston and walked the Freedom Trail with a guide, I thought, wouldn’t this be fun? And then I dipped my toe in and was immediately terrified by the enormity of the task. So much history from such a formative moment—how could I ever learn it and do it justice? But I stubbornly pushed through the fear, and I think I’ve done alright. I have learned, I have taught, I have told the stories and in the telling learned to tell them better. I have been a Boston guide. And it has changed me. I have walked the trail and told the stories and answered the questions and learned to see differently. I’ve learned to see other people differently—I hope more kindly—and I’ve learned to see myself differently too. I am capable of telling stories, yes, but also of getting interrupted and picking up the thread. I am capable of thinking on my feet, of engaging with strangers, and of guiding seventy people through the city streets in July—commanding their attention despite the heat and the construction and all the other street performers and distractions on offer. The tours taught me confidence, and they taught me humility. They gave me an income, an outlet, an ego boost, many reality checks, and dear friends. Best of all, they brought me my person.

Dylan came on one of my costumed Freedom Trail tours on Easter Sunday 2017 as a stranger. Today, he will come with me on my last tour as my husband. And then, next week, we’ll move together into the next adventure. I know it will be a grand one.

This city has been my home and has given me so much. Being a guide here has been a pivotal part of my identity. I have lived and breathed and been this city. But even before the pandemic, I was starting to feel that itch. That niggling feeling that I had done what I set out to do here and now I was starting to stagnate. I could be comfortable here, staying in the groove I worked hard to carve. It would not be a bad life—to stay. It is such a hard thing to let go of something that is still good—something that still works—to go into the unknown. But I also know how hard it is to stay too long. It is time. I know this feeling, and every time I’ve followed it in the past, it has been right. It has led me faithfully to the next place I needed to go.

So here I go. Not alone this time. Goodbye Boston. Until we meet again. Thank you for everything.