Eight years ago, I started this little blog with a pivotal first post titled, ‘My Name is Lindsay, and I’m a Love Addict.’

At the time, I was a 22-year-old with lofty dreams and a rather singular view of the world. I had the hopes of becoming a writer in New York and more importantly, finding the love of my life. While one of those things came true—in dividends—as years passed and blog posts collected, I grew weary and exhausted of writing about my dating life. I had lost interest in detailing every intimate moment from my personal experience for the web to read. Sure, dating was hard. Meeting someone who wanted to share his Netflix-and-chill evenings and his coffee-stained mornings with me seemed impossible. All the time I spent divulging and dissecting my lack of romance left me disenchanted by the whole process—and I found myself seeking greener pastures.

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Sticky and sleepy, I waved the keycard in front of the suite and told myself to inhale as I entered the room. A giant tub and standing shower to my left, adorned with a white, plush robe, waiting for me to take off my New York and put on my Mexico. I smiled at the thought and took a few steps to the living and sleeping area that was definitely not a one-size-fits-all but more of a too-big-for-one type of deal. I saw the message from the staff – ‘Welcome Lindsay!’ – written in a rainbow of multicolored rice and I had to touch the corner to make sure it was real, as a way of pinching myself to reality. I kept going until I arrived at the door of the balcony and with a quick sweep of the white linen curtains, I gasped at the view: crystal clear blue waves, the sun shining brighter than I’d ever witnessed in mid-December and two seats outside, calling me to uncork the bottle of wine sitting nearby.

“You created this, Lindsay. You worked for this. You did it,” I heard silently in my head. And though it should come as no surprise to those who love me dearly, I teared up outside in the salty Mexican area, still wearing my winter boots and thermal socks. Of all the moments I used to dream of in North Carolina, imagining what my life in New York would be like, it never occurred to me how following my heart could lead me far beyond skyscrapers and city sidewalks, but how it could take me all over the world, chasing bylines wherever they led me.

And I definitely didn’t think that I would get my great big start as a real-deal writer by creating a blog about being single at the age of 22, hungover from my birthday party before in an old, dusty, multi-family building in Harlem. Continue reading →

“Wow honey. Six years. That’s hard to believe,” my mom said in her groggy morning voice. No matter how early I call on my walk to work each day, she picks up. I know she’s proud of me (after all, she doesn’t go a week without reminding  me), but her sentiment about my moving-to-NYC anniversary was layered with both grief and kindness. As much as she will never admit it, I know a part of her wishes my dreams would have kept me in those rolling Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina and not led me to these hectic, boisterous streets of New York.

Six years. Six whole years. Continue reading →