Alexandra Charitan

Aug 31

Aug 31 35

On December 31, 2013, I was more than happy to say goodbye to a year that had, for many reasons, been both the worst and best of my 28 years thus far. As I rang in the New Year in Brooklyn, I sent a variety of tragically misspelled drunk texts to friends around the country; my words (like me) were barely coherent, but my general feelings about the previous 12 months were clear. “Fuck this fucking year,” I typed and I meant it.

I don’t believe in fresh starts necessarily—especially ones arbitrarily based on calendar pages—and when I moved to New York on July 1, 2013, I had no clue what the next seven days, seven months, or seven years would bring. But I had dreamed of living in the city for so long, that I probably would have told you that I planned to stay forever. And for almost seven years, that was mostly true. Sure, I was charmed by other cities and imagined what my life would be like within them, but every time I returned to New York I felt as if I was home.

So I was just as surprised as anyone else when, at the end of 2019, I began to think seriously about making a life for myself outside of New York. I had no idea what that meant at first, but it was impossible to ignore the feeling that my time in the city was coming to a natural end. In hindsight, I should’ve been more prepared. Today, I turn 35, and in reflecting on my “previous lives,” a pattern has begun to emerge. Every seven years (give or take), without even realizing it, I’ve experienced a year full of pivot points.

I started high school the same week I turned 14; shortly after, I developed a debilitating, years-long crush on a female teacher that made it impossible for me to ignore the complicated feelings about my developing sexuality. The seven years that followed were fraught to say the least. But there were moments of hope and signs of progress mixed in with the shame and fear that hung like clouds over so much of my life. I slowly came out to friends in high school; I was vice president of the LGBTQ organization at KSU, I found a group of friends I adored, and I kissed my first girl.

In 2006, a burgeoning Meryl Streep obsession coincided with my first serious relationship with a man. He was a typical “college boyfriend” in many ways. We met working at a record store off campus; he was the first person I slept with, the first person I smoked weed with, and the first person I took a road trip with. We were better friends than lovers and although it’s obvious to me now, at the time I was so deep in denial I simply felt broken.

This feeling only intensified over the next seven years, during which I graduated college, got a job in Akron, Ohio, and began dating my boss. I moved into his house in 2009 and until 2013 I tried desperately to live a life of ‘shoulds.’ I ‘should’ be attracted to men. I ‘should’ be content to make all of the meals, do all of the dishes, and keep a clean house. I ‘should’ be grateful that I have three jobs and ignore the fact that I can’t seem to get ahead. I ‘should’ overlook the infidelity, laugh off the daily emotional abuse, and keep my mouth shut.

No one can say I didn’t try—but no participation trophy is worth losing the best parts of yourself in pursuit of something you never really wanted in the first place. Seven years ago, it all fell apart, but I took those pieces and built a life for myself in New York that was better than I ever imagined it could be in almost every way. It was never perfect but I never expected it to be—of course it was never really about New York at all but the version of me that arrived there, feeling broken but hopeful.

When I left New York in March of this year, I no longer felt broken—and, in fact, I had begun to realize that maybe I never had been at all. Reframing the ‘shoulds’ into ‘coulds’ opened up my world in ways I never thought possible. No longer constrained by what I thought I should do, I suddenly felt the possibility of all of the things I could do. When I moved to Washington, D.C. in July, it was the first major decision I made in my life simply because I wanted to—I didn’t move for a job, for a family member, for a friend, for a relationship, or for how I thought it would look for me to do so. This is an absolute privilege, I know, but one I suspect more people have than they realize.

35 feels significant not only because it’s the beginning of my sixth ‘seven,’ but because it’s the first time I feel as if I have complete and total control of my own narrative. The life I’ve built in just a few months in D.C. feels like the one I’ve been chasing in one way or another my entire life. Anyone who knows me knows I’m not one to do something casually—if my first two months here are any indication, the next seven years won’t be any different.

I wasn’t broken because I couldn’t force an attraction to men, or be fulfilled by stacking firewood, or dig in my heels and commit to New York long after our relationship stopped being mutually beneficial. I didn’t change my mind, I evolved. I didn’t make mistakes, I made choices—each and every one of which led me to where I am now. I didn’t fail at being a woman, a girlfriend, or a New Yorker; after 35 years of trying, I’ve finally succeeded at simply being myself.