In the final days of our honeymoon in February, our landlord called to let us know there was a leak and repairs needed to happen and a larger conversation around our living situation was in store upon our return. Quite a pill to swallow when you’re in the middle of a beach town, enjoying the glow of newlywed life.
Long story short, once we got back we had to accept that between badly-needed renovations and a looming rent increase, it was time to say goodbye to my beloved home of 15.5 years. Simply put, I was stunned and I was devastated.
I was also very grumpy. It is a rare bit of NYC fortune to not have to move every few years. I hadn’t apartment hunted since 2009. Instead of basking in our honeymoon memories, we suddenly found ourselves apartment-hunting. Life seemed to stop as hours were spent on StreetEasy, viewing apartments and talking with brokers. My heart sank as I looked around at the enormity of what we needed to pack up.

At first, I was both stubborn and naive. I was set on staying as close to my building as I could, and kept the search parameters very tight, to keep my routines and all that was familiar and dear to me and train stop as close to what I knew as possible. One week into apartment-hunting, I saw how foolish and unrealistic this was. Once we broadened our geography, we found our now-home, and it happened breathtakingly quickly.

We saw the apartment on a Monday and fell in love with it. We applied Tuesday. We met the new landlord Wednesday. We had further paperwork to do over the next several days and signed the lease on Saturday, and handed over our security, broker’s fee and first month’s rent on March 17th for a March 30th move-in.

Suddenly, I had 13 days to pack up 15 years of my life. I’m not sure how we did it.

I knew that I needed to document those final days. That apartment held so much for me, and it all came spilling out the more I packed it all up. Old photos, paperwork, taxes, immigration documentation, yearbooks and negatives stuffed into more drawers than I’d care to admit. College papers that reminded me how smart I used to be (ha).
I lived in a weird time lapse of young me through today while I packed. Moving in at the age of 26, excited and idealistic. Leaving my non-profit career. Becoming a full-time photographer. Surviving a pandemic. Publishing my first book. Meeting my now-husband. Creating an at-home photo studio. Losing my cat Skittles and then adopting Samba. Taking over the apartment with my husband after years of wonderful roommates. All the years of triumphs, heartbreaks, trips, visits, meals, parties, and game nights. All coming to a bittersweet close.
I became an adult in that apartment, and I was so deeply attached to it and all the growth it represented. I realized that I had lived in that apartment longer than any other home I had lived in growing up. But I also realized it was time to move on. Not surprisingly, I cried a lot the weekend we left.

I wrote this from my new apartment, over the week leading up to today. Two weeks in, I am not quite used to it. It’s big and beautiful and everything we could have hoped for and more. I am so grateful that we found it and I will share more about the new space in the coming weeks and months. I miss my old neighborhood dearly. Our commute is more challenging. I miss the big mirrors and old moldings and knowing my neighbors. I still feel discombobulated and a little lost. Almost 5 weeks of life was spent in boxes, and as anyone knows, packing is terrible. I then manically unpacked as quickly as I could to feel like I recognized my surroundings.
As we’re down to the final boxes, I’m feeling hopeful and excited again. The plants are blossoming, the photos are hung, the cats are happy, and it’s starting to feel like a real home. A perfect way to begin my new year.

On Leaving My Apartment of 16 Years

Do photographers ever really vacation?