Tag Archives: Media

by - 6 Comments

Mr. Smith & the Little Notebook

In the heart of the Flat Iron District, right across from the building itself is a lovely place called Eataly.

It’s carved right out of the streets of Venice, with bright colors and even richer smells peppered about the establishment that entices passerbys, tourists and New Yorkers to take a stroll. There are cappuccinos and gelato, fresh cheeses and a wide selection of wine, along with truffle oil priced at $20 for an ounce or so. It’s fancy and expensive, filled with items I’d never buy for my kitchen, but treats I easily indulge in while I’m in the area.

But this night, my interest was piqued somewhere else. I didn’t give into the temptation of the double-chocolate cannolis and I kindly nodded against the samples of freshly baked bread with pesto dipping sauce. I looked away from the aisles filled with cooking knick-knacks that I could imagine myself using while wearing a silky black dress and expensive heels to match my expensive taste. But in that fantasy, I’m also dark-haired, exotic and tanned — not an Irish descendant with brown hair, blue eyes and cheeks that freckle in the sun.

In reality, I was waiting here to meet someone with similar hair and eyes but a foot taller. I nervously waited his arrival, still rather unsettled on my impression, and eager to see why he picked this location for our third date. I wondered if I haphazardly mentioned my obsession with all-things Italian or if it showed in my hips that devilishly trick me into picking pasta over salad nine times out of ten. When his name lit up in my phone, I figured out that, yet again, we were in different places at the same time. On our first date – a Sunday brunch that didn’t end until 10:30 in the evening – we went to separate locations of the same restaurant (I to the original, he to the one most convenient to me — woops). And here we were again, standing at different entrances, probably curious as to why the other is late. Perhaps we were both right on time, but with opposing opinions of where to stand. Isn’t that the case with most encounters that end up mattering?

I found him on the other side and we walked until he picked the beer garden on top of Eataly – something I meant to do this summer, but failed to accomplish. In the winter, it sparkles with white lights, and proved to be surprisingly toasty via heat lamps. As we bantered our way through the menu, ordered a bottle of red wine based merely because it was on special, I listened intently. His stories are feathered at the edges — full of variations in his tone, subtle grins here-and-there and blushing with character. But as much as he moved his hands at dinner or carelessly made light of himself, I could tell he had his ear on me.

Maybe I was biased after he promised his memory was better than mine while walking by the Plaza our first date. Or the fact he actually remembered my preference for orange juice on our second date when we stopped by McDonald’s after my first improv show in the city. Nevertheless, watching his lips as I tried to pay attention to his thoughts as much as I battled my desire to kiss him – I knew that he was taking me in. And more so, he was paying attention.

And this knowledge made me nervous.

I am always the one making observations, it is after all, part of the job of a writer to note other people. The only way I’m able to pen what I do is because I’m continuously anxious to discover the story behind strangers or the loves I know best. But to have my stomach know better than my heart that this new guy was absorbing everything I said (and did) – was rather fascinating. Maybe I’m a little jaded from the revolving door of dudes who don’t live up to expectations, yet thrive on being disappointments – but I was surprised to find a man who actually listened.

And more astonishing, asked more questions than I did. Now, that’s a definite first.

As the check came and went, along with my level-head due to the velvet red wine I happily consumed, I looked across our cozy rod-iron table and thought: what in the world can come out of that mouth next?

I have a present for you, he said, sipping the last bit left in his glass. From Staples. I quizzed him in silence, wrapping my finger around the side of my water, trying to break eye contact, but finding it impossible. Out of his jacket pocket he pulled a notebook no bigger than my hand. You said you like to people watch, right? But you never have a notebook on you. Let’s people watch. Write down anything that comes to mind.

Speechless, I looked down at the notebook – black, with a pink side. Here’s a pen, he continued. Unable to stop smiling – with teeth, not a calculated grin – I met his eyes, only to find him pulling out another notebook. And this is for me to do the same. Or when I notice things about you.

And there, in one of my favorite places in this big city, we started writing: what we saw at the tables near us, the views we witnessed outside the cascading wall of windows, the questions that sat  in the eyes of the soul sitting across from us. We wrote for five minutes (per his instructions), and then we bar hopped. Every once in a while, he’d bring out that notebook and he’d write something, and though he let me read a bit of it at the end of the night, I’m sorry to report my tipsy self was too buzzed to remember much.

Friday is our 7th date (though he says our 8th because the first was blissfully long), and I’ve been trying to think of a name for him since the day he gave me the notebook. He suggested up more than a few ideas, none of which were suitable to him, though he’d probably beg to differ. I thought about Mr. Something – because something is different about him, Mr. Sincerity – since that’s the best word I can use to describe him thus far, Mr. Grin – because that’s what he does the most, but none of them worked in the way my super-critical writing mind thinks, until last night.

When, out of the blue, for no merited reason at all, he sent me a quote that happens to be one of my all-time favorite quotes from my favorite author. He knew of my preferred author, but not of those words. But really that’s one of the things I like the most about him – his words. They are crafted with care, said at the right moment and sometimes strikingly similar to things that have mattered to me that he doesn’t know the reason why, yet. Perhaps he tries or maybe it comes naturally – but like me, he’s a wordsmith. One that doesn’t depend on trickery but on strings tied directly to the heart.

Especially since he knew after two dates that more than I need bandaids and lipstick, receipts from weeks ago and pennies I found on the street, I need a notebook with me, wherever I go. You know, when I notice things about strangers. Or about Mr. Smith.

PS: I was amazed with how many Valentine’s were sent last year from all over the world. Your touching words, your kind sentiments and the way you expressed all the things you hope for, as well as all the things that make you so beautiful – were incredible. I hope you will take a moment to write a Valentine about all the things you love about yourself, all the things in the future you can’t wait to experience and what  self-love means to you. I’ll publish your words – along with a link to your blog, if you blog – on Valentine’s Day. Or if you’d rather be anonymous, that’s fine too.

Go here to submit your Valentine. You deserve it. Tell me how sweet it is to be loved by you.

by - 10 Comments

The Crack in the Door

When Mr. Possibility left to go overseas the first time, he wanted to stay with me his last night in New York. At that point there had been no discussions of what we were, no title, no commitment, no anything – we were friends enjoying each other’s company and making no plans for anything more.

But I was falling for him.

It was the time when everything about him seemed refreshing, when our conversations were long and our nights were easily and sweetly passed sharing the tiny twin bed I used to have. It was when I had no expectations but still had hope of all of the things that could be. It was before I memorized every dimple, every line, each stare and every rhyme — it was before there was an “us”, before there was anything to be counted on. Or anything for him to be accountable for. It was before he explored other possibilities and before I realized his impossibilities vastly surpassed his opportunities.

The night before, we hopped from bar to bar, then ended up getting ice cream, even in near-freezing weather. I noticed the blush in his cheeks, the stubble on his chin and the easy laughter that made it so damn difficult to not admire him. He talked about his travels overseas and I listened intently, hanging onto his promises of flying me over to visit in a country that I barely knew anything about. Little did I know his invitation was already extended to another, but that would be a lesson I’d learn after hours on Skype and a bouquet of tulips sent to my home in North Carolina (with a few buds intended for my mother’s 50th birthday, mind you). Bastard.

Even though I wasn’t his girlfriend at the time, he asked to stay the night, promising to keep me warm and hold me as tightly as we fell asleep. I obliged, unable to dismiss his affections and terrified that this loving feeling growing inside of me would disappear just as he plane took flight. And so, I welcomed him into my miniature studio, on the right side of my tiny bed and into the smallest part of my heart, that eventually would spread to consume most of the organ that truly defines who I am.

When the clock struck 5 a.m. and the 6’2-200-pound handsome lug lifted himself off of me suddenly, I blinked my eyes to see my kitchen lamp on and that same lug pulling on socks and trousers. Too tired to greet him with much more than a sigh, I smiled in his general direction and closed my eyes again, hoping to meet sleep easily and ignore the sad good-bye that I knew was inevitable. In what seemed like hours, moments later he greeted my eyelids with dozens of soft kisses and cupped my face with hands big enough to swallow my cheeks as he whispered, “I’ll see you soon, Tigar. I’ll miss you so much. Come visit me.” I responded with a sweet nudge and let him walk away.

Less than a thought later, I opened my eyes only to notice a light shining into my room. In his hurry, Mr. Possibility had left my door cracked, allowing the hallway to look inside my apartment, along with all who passed my door. Groggily, I stumbled to secure the lock and curled back into bed, cursing the winter weather and an investment bank for taking a man I was falling for, far, far away.

When the New York sun found its way into the sky and made me greet a day I didn’t wish to meet, I peered out the bay window by my bed, wishing that warm body was still near me and dreaming up all the ways I could possibly see him overseas. What book is best about the Middle East? What would I wear? Would this mean we were something more? Would I become his girlfriend? Was I ready for that? I curled up into the quilt that came with the apartment, and after deciding I should wash it, I exhaled into it, missing his smell and missing the way his body moved in his sleep. Still buried in a blanket that wasn’t mine to begin with, I shifted my attention to my far-from-grand entrance and remembered the door he left open.

Perhaps it wasn’t intentionally symbolic, or intentional by any means — but in my memory of that moment, I took it as such. I believed it to mean there was a crack in the door, or at least a window ajar. There was an opportunity for something more that I couldn’t foresee. Maybe he was in a rush but maybe it meant so much more – it meant there was a chance for us. A chance for love.

I held onto to that crack in the door for as long as I could, and then a little longer than that. I held onto promises that were broken before they were made, beds that were ruined before they could be tucked in and dreams that died a slow, bitter death – as such unrealistic things often do. I believed in that crack in the door with more faith than I believed in Mr. Possibility – if I could always see how things could change, how the light could really be at the end of a twisted, dark tunnel, than I could make it work. Even after I had left the relationship in the past, I lingered on thoughts of what it could have been, what it should have been, what I wanted it to be — without seeing how the crack was swiftly disappearing into a void. Because I made up illusions that captivated me, I was determined to make them the beautiful reality I had imagined.

The last time I saw him – after giving into an invitation to visit his nieces, a chord he knew would strike me to my core — I watched him climb the stairs to catch his train, knowing it’d be a long time (if ever) I’d see him again. Startled by the idea that I wouldn’t see those dimples or hear his daily anecdotes, or be considered one of his friends or the one who got away,  I snapped out of my stubbornness and followed after him, damning the train that was arriving. As fast as my heels would take me, I reached the platform, only to see him disappear into the cart.

And just as I reached the doors, they closed. I knocked on the window, but he was already tuned into his Blackberry, not facing toward me, but far away, in a place I could never reach — even after a year of loving him with all that I had, despite who he was, and especially who he wasn’t. The train pulled away and the passenger inside watched me lust after him longingly, but Mr. Possibility never noticed.

I never told him, either. What’s there to say when the crack in the door…is sealed shut?

PS: I was amazed with how many Valentine’s were sent last year from all over the world. Your touching words, your kind sentiments and the way you expressed all the things you hope for, as well as all the things that make you so beautiful – were incredible. I hope you will take a moment to write a Valentine about all the things you love about yourself, all the things in the future you can’t wait to experience and what  self-love means to you. I’ll publish your words – along with a link to your blog, if you blog – on Valentine’s Day. Or if you’d rather be anonymous, that’s fine too.

Go here to submit your Valentine. You deserve it. Tell me how sweet it is to be loved by you.

by - 8 Comments

Let My Heart Design

There are moments in every 20-something’s life where you the world you’ve created doesn’t seem at all like you thought it would. There are these days where you feel out-of-place in your own skin, where your thoughts don’t seem to be your own and where doubts are far more common than reassuring sentiments. There are these ideas that pop into your head that you can’t shake and these desires that strike your soul that seem so positively unsettling, it’s inspiring.

One of those thoughts hit me the morning after I returned to New York after Christmas.

I opened my eyes, irritated that I woke up nearly two hours before I should have, and after twenty minutes of tossing and turning, I gave into my internal alarm clock and sat up in bed. There in the uncanny silence that this city only offers before the coffee is brewed or the street vendors set up shop, I really looked around my room — for probably the first time since I moved to this apartment in May.

I saw the pale-green walls that I didn’t paint. The mismatched frames that dusted my IKEA bookshelf and the dirty laundry piled in the corner. The lack of a bed frame. The desk that I never use, but has rings from beer glasses I actually filled with orange juice, not booze. My closet that’s practically begging to be cleaned out, sprouting shoes from the right, growing scarves from the left. The suitcase that won’t fit in said-closet, so it’s wedged under the window, with a wooden box covering it.

What does this space say about me? I wondered. Does it say a successful editor lives here? Someone who is full of optimism and lives a full life? I questioned, pulling the covers to my chin and turning off the fan I use to fall asleep with. No, it doesn’t. This space says nothing about me other than I have stuff.

But those weren’t the thoughts that struck me — it was this one: You’ll enter your mid-twenties this year, what have you actually done with your life? Does this room show that you’re still figuring that out?

This isn’t the first time I’ve analyzed my personal aspirations or intentions. Actually, I’d say I’m in a constant state of personal wonder as an explorer of my own self, constantly prying into the places I let no one else go, trying to make sense of the person I am and the woman I hope to be. But this very, very Virgo-ness comes with its downfalls — some would say that I can’t get no satisfaction, others would say my hopes for something more are selfish. I’d say it’s a little bit of both — sometimes I only want what I can’t have, but most of the time, I figure out ways to make the things that are the most important to me less like dreams and more like reality.

But I haven’t really traveled. My “studying abroad” experience was interning in New York — a destination that in comparison to North Carolina, is quite foreign. All of my savings, all of my efforts went into making the big move, so thousands of dollars to visit Spain or Greece fell low on the travel priorities. But now I’m here, so why not see the world outside of the island of Manhattan? I gave up on a second language in college, but I constantly find myself tuning into conversations in dialects I can’t understand, endlessly entertained by the jokes I don’t catch or the romance I can only see through body language, not speech. So why not learn? I’ve been running for years — off and on, mind you — but I’ve never ran more than a 5K. So why not try more? And though I have an entire Pinterest board of apartment decor I love, I never invest in anything other than brunches and lunches, clothes and books, wine and cheap accessories I find in the Village. So why not push some money toward making my place, look like me?

But what is me? I considered, standing up to put on my robe and flipping on a hand-me-down lamp. Who am I, now that I have the big girl job, the big girl location and the big girl life? Am I big girl now? What does she look like?

And so, I entertained my overly-structured, thoughtful-self and wrote down the things I knew about myself. My strengths, like being brave when I’m afraid, and afraid when I fear losing something that’s special. My ability to balance the best while handling the worst. My unyielding, everlasting, overly positive perception of love — between lovers, between friends, between families, between strangers. My courage to share with the world the things that most people never address privately. How I can see the good in the gullible soul, the great in the gray hair.

And I listed my weaknesses.

Like being far harder on myself than even the most dedicated hater of this blog. Or for putting the needs of unavailable men before the basic needs that keep me humming a little happy tune just for me. Or the way I can be oversensitive about things that are merely opinion, and saddened by the coolness of facts I wish weren’t so. How I snap at those who care when they see me clearer than I see myself. When I’m boastful in times when I should be humble, how I can be quick to judge and slow to forgive. Or worse, when I’m forgiving of those who don’t deserve it and resentful of those who do.

Or how, like in this moment, I’m overly critical of everything in my life, including the place I lay my head.

But I have my heart, I thought. It’s a bright shining center in the middle of a me that’s oftentimes, very messy. It’s the most brilliant part of me, that those I love see all the time, and strangers comment about on the street. It’s the part of me that feels warmed by the wide-eyed faces of babies on the train, and the me that waits until a kitten finds its way back into an apartment before I stop watching it. It’s what makes me give up my seat for those who need it, pause on the busy streets to let someone else pass and always offer to help, no matter how busy I am. It’s what makes me a dedicated friend and a loving partner. It’s what allows me to be walked all over and bruised, but still get up and do it all over again. It’s what allows me to choose the happiness of others over the satisfaction I’d maybe prefer.

So no, maybe I’m not where I thought I’d be. Or maybe I’ve come a lot further than I believed I ever would. Perhaps my passport is blank, along with the pale-green walls that I really don’t care for. Maybe I’m approaching the middle point of my second decade on this planet and I haven’t scratched the surface of what I hope to do in this lifetime.

But I have time to see places I want to see. Time to find the parts of me I’ve yet to discover. Time to paint my room before the Spring arrives. Time to learn how to say “love” in every language I find intriguing. Time to put that word to use with men who are worthy of all it entails.

And time to let my heart design my space, my intentions and my life. After all, without it, nothing I see around me (or inside of me) would be possible.

PS: I was amazed with how many Valentine’s were sent last year from all over the world. Your touching words, your kind sentiments and the way you expressed all the things you hope for, as well as all the things that make you so beautiful – were incredible. I hope you will take a moment to write a Valentine about all the things you love about yourself, all the things in the future you can’t wait to experience and what  self-love means to you. I’ll publish your words – along with a link to your blog, if you blog – on Valentine’s Day. Or if you’d rather be anonymous, that’s fine too.

Go here to submit your Valentine. You deserve it. Tell me how sweet it is to be loved by you.

by - 11 Comments

The Nice Girl

Since I’m really trying to turn over new leaves and try new things this year, I decided vamping up my online dating profile would be a solid first step. Sure, dating isn’t a priority but I enjoy going out with guys and meeting new people in general, online is an easy way to take pressure off when bar-hopping with the ladies. Let the guys I may want to date stay online and the guys I want to dance with hang out at the club, right? Sitting in my new fluffy bathrobe, exhausted after forcing myself to start running again, I sent the link to my friend K to have her give suggestions. After reading, she asked why I wanted to change it, and I said: You don’t think it sounds too nice?

She replied, But you are nice.

Ugh that word. Nice. You’re so nice. You’re such a sweet girl. You’re a doll! It’s all so irritating. I don’t want to be nice. Her words nagged me. They buzzed about my head and allowed my brow to scrunch, though I knew my mother would say it causes wrinkles and I shouldn’t do such a thing to my skin. But I was annoyed. Very annoyed.

Surely she meant no harm and was just being honest – I am, indeed, a nice person. I think of things before others do, I try to be the best friend I can be, I send hand-written cards for the holidays because I love to picture the instant smiles from others when they receive real mail, I always give gifts with meanings, I pause to let the person walk in front of me, I give up my seat for the elderly and give half my sandwich to the homeless. I volunteer with kids who want to write because I’m passionate about helping children and literacy. I hold the doors open for people I know and those I don’t. I get cabs when I know others are struggling financially. I try to be considerate even when someone is inconsiderate. I’m even nice in relationships – I usually don’t really care what we eat, so I eat what he wants. I leave hidden notes in places he’ll find throughout his day. I learn to bake his favorite goodies, regardless of how long we’ve been together. I’ll return text messages timely and I’ll give back scratches without much persuasion. I may even sit through an incredibly sports-something-or-another if it’s important to him.

She’s right. I’m nice. But when she said it – I automatically hated it.

Noting my frustration, K asked me to describe myself in three words. Irritated at my “nice” label but trying to look past it, I typed: ambitious, thoughtful and optimistic. I stared at them on the Gchat screen gazing back at me. I didn’t include sexy or spontaneous. Or anything about adventure! I’m starting to travel and do things alone, should that be included? What about something about attitude? I can be a bitch if I really try! Or when someone royally pisses me off like Mr. P, oh my god, he can definitely bring that side out of me. Are those really the words to describe me? Really?

I typed to her: Doesn’t that make me sound boring? With her usual elegance, she replied, Thoughtful means you have the skill of making sure cards magically arrive right on time, ambitious means you moved here all on your own and made it happen without fearing the worst, and optimistic means you’re trying online dating, you believe in people, you believe in luck, you believe in fate, and you’re excited! That does not make you boring, that makes you, you.

I didn’t let go of my irritation that night, I went to sleep believing no one would message me — the nice girl. Or the guys that did, would be so intolerably irritating or nice guys that are waiting until marriage for sex or sport that button up with khaki look that I despise, I would curse myself a little bit more for being nice.

Staring up at my ceiling I decided how I wanted my profile to read: I’m so incredibly happy and satisfied with my life that I’m standing here in a black dress, drinking champagne and laughing, not caring what you think or if you want to go out with me. I want it to say: I’m sassy and independent, don’t mess with me unless you have big enough balls to match my courage, and the ability to wow a real woman. I want it to be like this: cool, confident, sarcastic, sexy and totally unavailable unless it’s a really, really incredible guy. I picture myself dripping in diamonds with a slender frame, red, red lips, standing in sky-scraper heels on a rooftop with Manhattan as my background, with a look that says: Don’t f*** with me.

But let’s be honest – that’s just not me. I am nice. A nice Southern girl who moved to the big city. Right? Or maybe – maybe – I’m confusing nice with boring. Nice isn’t boring – it’s…nice.

I am happy and satisfied with my life. I do wear black and drink champagne with my friends, not caring what a man thinks or doesn’t. I am definitely sassy in the right circumstance and I was raised to be an independent thinker. I’d like to think my ballsy courage is one of my greatest traits, and currently, I’d say I’m pretty unavailable unless a dreamboat comes sailing along. The thing is, even if I’m all of those things, I’m still a fun girl…with a heart. The girl who will say what she thinks, but kindly. The girl who is strong enough to walk away but will feel a little twang of guilt for having to do so. The girl who helps others but also remembers herself. The girl who dances on tabletops but also makes sure her friends don’t tumble while they’re joining her. The girl who is undeniably strong, but equally undeniably sensitive, too. I do lead with my heart instead of my breasts. I say what I want, I know what I want and go after what I want – but I don’t walk all over people to get there. I’m not that model-esque thing standing in the corner of an overpriced club downtown, I’m more the girl who hangs out at a lounge in the West Village, eying the guy with blue eyes and crazy, curly hair. And while I may first be attracted to his mystery and his sex appeal, or his comfortable confidence that’s not too arrogant, what will keep me attracted to him is how thoughtful he is. And the ambition that drives his optimistic view on life.

Maybe nice girls and nice guys finish last – if so, I might have a long way to go. But I don’t think being nice is a turnoff, I think being boring is. And they’re not the same thing, though it may be easy to confuse the two. I may not be all of the things I think make someone cool, and I may have more sugar-and-spice than frogs, snails and puppy-dog tails – but one thing I’ll never be… is boring.

Because if I was boring – I wouldn’t have woken up to a few messages in my inbox the next morning and two dates planned this weekend. Looks like nice girls aren’t so bad, after all.

by - 12 Comments

Ten Years in the Making

You can do it, Linds. You can do this! I reminded myself walking up a white staircase into a large white room decorated with home décor accents from Family Dollar. It was a little newspaper in the “downtown” area of an even smaller town – but for me, it was my first real gig as a journalist.

Having just moved to a community where the closest Wal Mart was 30 minutes away and the only attraction was a barbeque pit and a sparkling man-made lake, I felt out-of-my-element and frankly, lost. To ease the idle time at age 15, I started reading the county newspaper and noticed a void of teen content. Tapping into my self-starter mentalities, I casually mentioned my observations to my mother who gleefully suggested I pitch to the editor of the newspaper.

Well who would write it? I asked. You, silly! She suggested. Hmm…

And so after some string-pulling and a four-hour shopping trip to buy my very first suit set (it was pink corduroy, sadly), I landed a meeting with the Editor-in-Chief of The Clay County Progress. Just tell her what you want to do. That’s all you have to do. And walk in these heels – don’t fall!! I said over-and-over while waiting in a “lobby” next to a water fountain, flipping through my “portfolio” which was really just a few pages of things I’d scribbled together and essays from school. I surely couldn’t bring in my diaries, though that’d be a more credible resume booster if I wanted to be a columnist.

When she finally called me in, I handed her my colorful binder (purple with letters cut out of magazine headlines that spelled: Lindsay’s Writing Portfolio) and proposed a weekly teen column that discussed the young adult perspective on everything from war to love. I continued to describe myself, making sure to throw in words like “hard-working” and “creative” like my father suggested. Don’t tuck your hair behind your ear, don’t do it. Just leave it. No, it’s not itching. Just leave it alone, Lindsay! I thought while clutching my fists under the table while she asked me questions. Smile, I encouraged myself. Maybe she likes you!

Twenty minutes and a trip to the bathroom later, I jumped into my mom’s car where she sat anxiously waiting: Well? she asked. I’m a columnist! I screamed. We went to get ice cream sundaes to celebrate and I reveled at the fact I’d get a whole $10 a week for writing. I could hardly believe someone was wiling me to do something I’d do for free and that I’d see my name in a newspaper that people actually paid money to read.

It was amazing – and I was hooked.

From there, I went on to co-lead the high school newspaper, intern for a local women’s magazine, then I brought that same ridiculously unprofessional portfolio to college where I started as an intern reporter and moved up to an Associate Editor. During my Appalachian State days, I managed to land an internship at Cosmopolitan (where my NYC love affair became undeniably serious) and wrote a blog for Seventeen.com. When I wasn’t promoted to Editor-in-Chief at the college newspaper, I was blessed to be offered an Editor-at-Large position at ChickSpeak.com, and it was there that I fell in love with the beautiful land of cyber-style writing. I love to hold my magazines and read them on the train, but my heart is intertwined with the web.

All of those experiences bought my one-way ticket to New York City (along with several restaurant and retail jobs) where I tried my skills out in the business writing world. And then of course, this lovely little blog deemed me a “Carrie Bradshaw”-like heroine in New York (though I could never afford her apartment or her shoes).

Lastly – and most amazingly – all of that hard work paid off this year when I landed the dream job. Nearly ten years (almost to the exact date!) have passed since I pitched my first column and now, I’m working, editing and writing for NBC. I never thought I’d be this remarkably happy at a job, but I am. I wish I could put into words how thankful I am, but no amount of gratitude could ever express it.

A year ago I wrote about what 2010 meant to me and what it represented. It was the year for New York, the year for many firsts, the year for great strides, big chances and slim paychecks. It was when I gained my city sense, when I tried out urban dating, when I started to become my own person, when I figured out (or rather solidified) that New York was definitely the place I wanted to live.

But 2011 has meant something different. It marked the end of a decade – ten years in the making of what’s made me, me.

It’s been about finding me in every aspect of my life. It was the year I decided I would be brave enough to fall in love, regardless of the outcome. It was the year I dedicated to writing – posting 1,000-word entries for nine months out of the 12. It was the year I met people I know will be my best friends when our boobs reach our knees. It was the year I learned how to survive on my own, completely cutting financial ties with my family. It was the year I went after the things I wanted, the things I came to New York to find. It was the year I let go of what was dependable and good to find the incredible and the great.

It was the year I got to where I wanted to be: a strong, independent 20-something, working at a place she loves, surrounded by friends who inspire her and doing the things that make her happy, with or without a man.

It seems impossible that so much time has passed or that I’ve already written so many articles and blogs that I’m more Google-able than I’d like my dates to know – but I’m proud of my work. I love that someone, somewhere has read something I’ve written and has learned something. Or felt less alone or less crazy. Or has been courageous enough to leave a relationship that wasn’t healthy to find hope for one that will be. Writing about love isn’t like being a journalist on the front lines or reporting on the latest political advances – but it has its own place and purpose in the world.  And for now, it’s a place that I belong. It’s a purpose that I found a home in. It’s where I was always meant to be.

So thank you 2011 for changing me. For allowing me to make a lot of mistakes to get to where I am now. For teaching me how to love myself unconditionally, through jobs and breakups, love and a lot of luck.

I’m not the person I was in 2010 and thanks to 2011, I have a good feeling I’ll be one hell of a woman in 2012. Just wait and see.