Written by: Ashley Lentz
I’ve done this before. Almost ten years to the day, I found myself selling most of my
belongings, packing the rest into a mid-sized rental, saying goodbye to my loved ones,
and starting over somewhere new. The process may feel familiar,
but I am no longer the same.Back in 2015, I was a different Ashley. had little awareness, curiosity, or desire to be in
the present moment. I was always planning, always managing, always trying to bend life
to my will. I lived for destinations, never the journey. Back then, adventure was
something to control — not to experience.
This time is different.The morning I announced my departure from New York was startlingly quiet, almost
symbolic. There were no car horns, no pounding footsteps, no sirens, no construction
noise outside my window. Just the soft chirping of my birds and the steady rhythm of my
dog snoring at my side. It felt like the City itself was giving me permission to choose
peace.
I knew if I could declare my next move on this rare Brooklyn morning, then it had to be
the right decision. Still, it wasn’t an easy one. I had spent years building what many
would call the “New York dream.” I had a circle of friends who had become my family. I
had finally graduated from cramped living arrangements into my own apartment —
complete with a garden and a bathtub so big it felt almost decadent by New York
standards. I had kind, gracious landlords. I had a studio just a short walk from home
where my work wasn’t just a career but a community.
By many measures, I had made it. And yet, I couldn’t ignore the pull toward something
quieter. Something softer. Something that asked me to stop numbing myself to the
endless noise and instead face what was happening inside.
Because what I’ve learned is this: the outside world will always roar. The City will always
be the City. But if I don’t learn how to soften, how to listen inwardly, how to face the
deeper questions about what I believe, who I am, and how I want to show up in the
world, then the noise will eventually win.
The first five years in New York toughened me. The City stripped me down, tested me
daily, and gave me lessons I’ll carry forever. For the next few years, I thrived in that
rhythm, building my version of success. But recently, I’ve found myself longing for
something different. Maybe it’s age. Maybe it’s the fading allure of nightlife. Maybe it’s
the way small talk feels more draining than energizing. Or maybe it’s just that resilience,
for me, no longer looks like pushing through at all costs — it looks like knowing when to
step back and soften.
This existential “de-icing,” has made me feel more. It’s made me curious about the
choices that shape me. What am I consuming — physically, emotionally, mentally —
that leaves me depleted? What lifts me up instead of weighing me down? For years, I
could numb these questions with noise and busyness. But no more.
And so, I chose to leave. I chose space. I chose a pause. Not to escape New York,
because I know the City is never something you truly escape. But because staying
would mean continuing on autopilot and eventually losing the capacity to recognize the
difference between feeling good and feeling numb.
Resilience is not always about standing firm in the storm. Sometimes, it’s about knowing
when to walk away, when to seek shelter, when to allow your spirit the chance to rest.
Leaving New York wasn’t about giving up. It was about giving myself permission to feel
again, to listen again, and to remember that life isn’t meant to be endured
— it’s meant to be lived.
Closing Reflection
As I write this, I don’t know how long my “break” from New York will last. Maybe months.
Maybe years. Maybe forever. What I do know is that resilience has carried me here —
not as armor, but as a reminder that strength can look like softness. That courage can
look like surrender. That growth sometimes requires us to step away from the noise and
step closer to ourselves.
New York will always be part of me. It built me, tested me, and prepared me for this next
chapter. But now, it’s time for me to learn what peace, presence, and gentleness have
to teach. This is not an ending. It’s a continuation of the journey — one I am finally
ready to live in the present moment.
