Twig by Twig

The way birds make nests is remarkable. I got to New York a few years ago and this was the first memorable sentence I wrote down, sitting in front of my new giant windows, watching my breath appear and fade from the glass, along with thoughts of, “this is totally right for me” and “what the fuck did I just do”. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. I questioned my sanity, shedding my comfortable old crab shell for a bigger, shinier (much more expensive) one. I packed three bags of clothes to move to the city, most of which was flannel. My Pacific Northwest roots were always showing, until the plaid slowly got phased out to the black on black metropolitan uniform. 

Leaving Seattle, one of the last things I remember my mum telling me was, “Come back if you get lonely.” I couldn’t help but feel a little broken by those words, thinking about this idea of loneliness- me, a feisty mountain goat who used to pride herself on never needing anyone for anything. But just in case, I sat on the plane and made a note of everyone I know in New York, all forty two of ‘em, forty of whom I actually wanted nothing to do with. I can be the person I need for myself, isn’t that what everyone else does here? But just in case, I wrote this list and called it, “In case of loneliness.”

Over the past handful of years in this glorious city, I have earned myself bigger windows. This time of year is when I get all sorts of sappy and reflective about my New York nest and I’m pleased to report, the puffs of air on the glass are filled with much less doubt. Now I just like to draw hearts in the fogginess. In case you read nothing further- what I’ve learned from the heart-breaking, never-dull, exhausting bender that is starting over is this- you need people. 

I was in Tel Aviv on a business trip during my first year of this reinvention period. I was there meeting my Israeli team for the first time-  a week of long work days and giant family dinners filled with more personal detail than I like to volunteer. My creative director looked at me and with a thick Israeli accent, came right out with it. 

“Why aren’t you married? No kids?” The Israelis are lovely people who are not big on subtlety.

“Oh, I’m actually divorced,” I said.

“Divorced? Not married? No kids? So you’re dead.” 

You can imagine my surprise after being informed that I’m dead (culturally speaking). I chalked it up to generational norms, different folks/different strokes. I returned to my cozy Brooklyn apartment, excited to furnish my dead woman nest. My new mattress and a few other boxes were waiting for me at the base of my charming three flights of stairs. If you haven’t ordered a mattress in a box before, they really go the extra mile to remind you that you can’t actually do hard things alone. They stamp the outside in all these big red emojis with an X over the solo person and a thumbs up next to the pair (these graphics are intended to tell you the unpacking is a two person job). There’s a deep, silly metaphor here but unpacking lots of stuff is a two person job, despite my best efforts to unpack things alone for the adult decades of my touchy-feely life. 

I have been somebody’s someone for the last four-ish months and I take it all back. I take back what I said about not needing anyone. You’re welcome to fight me on this but I don’t think anyone can be fully content just riding off into the sunset solo. Sure, it’s still a nice sunset but what if the horse you’re on gets a giant bite in the ass from a horsefly and you fly through the air and smack your little head on a cinder block for every time you proudly proclaimed you’re all set on your own.

You need people. Someone to drink the good wine with, someone to do the good living with. Someone to put down as your emergency contact. Someone who you know will find you if you suffocate trying to put the cover on your duvet. Someone to wander Restoration Hardware with, browse Zillow with as foreplay (this makes perfect sense if you’re over the age of 30). Your person (or people) makes you better and makes you want better for yourself and they do all that by just existing- it’s this super power that we gain when we find our people and we don’t even know we have it.

If you ever watch a bird make a nest, they have big strong sticks on the bottom for a hefty foundation and the ones closer to the top add some shape and coziness but they might fall away and if they do, that’s okay. Twig by twig, I have made myself a remarkable nest, under most questionable conditions and with stupidly expensive taste in twigs. The pieces someone else brought me are stronger than the ones I found for myself. And after collecting all the twigs I need for now, I get to learn the other reasons why you need someone, like quietly sharing air on hungover Sundays, just because it feels better and you somehow still understand each other despite barely being able to form complete sentences.

You need people. Somebody. Maybe it’s a handful of somebodys. If the cheesy bird analogy isn’t working for ya, flip through a Restoration Hardware catalogue, you’re gonna want someone to go halfsies on that bill with you. And while I’m reflecting on this worthwhile lesson for needing people, to my dear self- thank goodness you started letting people in. It was only a matter of time before you hurt yourself lifting heavy shit. But look at who you are and where you are now and there’s probably a somebody or two who’s glad you made it here too.