Moving to a city you’ve only visited once…Signing a lease on an apartment you’ve never seen in person…

It sounds crazy in hindsight. But not as crazy as living the rest of my life wondering what if.

What if I never lived on my own?

What if I never left New York?

What if I never found out what it would feel like to completely start over?

I think that fear—the fear of never knowing—was worse than any fear of failure.

Even if I stayed home, met a great husband, had a beautiful life on the water with beautiful kids…

I think that gnawing question would still live in the back of my mind. Like when you leave the house and can’t remember if you turned off the stove. Something’s off. Something’s missing.

That’s what staying in New York felt like.

Like I was on my way to something good—but forgetting something vital.

So I left.

And I’m so grateful I had the privilege to do it—and to do it now.

But it wasn’t all easy. Not even close.

The only time I had ever been to Nashville was for three days—a solo trip I booked on a whim for my 25th birthday. I woke up that morning and didn’t want to go to work. Didn’t want to be wished a happy birthday. I just wanted out.

So I sat in bed and booked a round-trip ticket to Tennessee. I texted my boss and told her I wouldn’t be coming in.

And that trip? It changed something in me. I walked down Broadway and felt peace for the first time in a long time. I couldn’t get over the fact that the music was free. That you could just walk in, no cover, no expectation, and be moved by the kind of talent that makes your chest ache. I didn’t even buy a drink—I just stood there and soaked it in.

Something told me I’d be back.

And after turning 26, and going through a personal heartbreak, I knew: it was now or never.

So I signed a lease on an apartment I’d never seen in a city I barely knew. I packed up my life and moved to Music City—alone.

And here I am. Three weeks in.

It’s been beautiful. And it’s been hard.

When I visited last year, I was fearless. I didn’t care what I looked like or who I talked to. I was just a girl on a solo trip—no pressure, no expectations. Just me and the music.

But now? Now I live here. Now I have to build something. And suddenly, the pressure followed me.

The overthinking. The self-consciousness. The New York hustle that told me I had to present myself a certain way.

And somewhere along the way, that fearless version of me… got a little quieter.

I’m working on getting her back.

Now that my apartment has furniture and it’s starting to feel like home, I’m beginning to loosen up. But I’m not fully there yet. Not quite. I still feel a little caged, like I dragged the less-free versions of myself with me.

But I’m documenting it. The good, the bad, the growing pains.

I’ve revived a blog I created months ago (and like many things in my life, abandoned). Because as a writer, I have to write. I have to publish. I have to put my words out into the world.

Because if I don’t—who will?

Who’s going to find all my journals one day and publish them for me? Who’s going to scroll through endless iPhone Notes and make something out of them?

No one.

That’s my job. So this is me doing it.

Thank you for reading. Truly.

I’m so excited to share this next chapter with you.