Dreams, Detours, and the Parts of Me I’m Leaving Behind

My old block on Halsey Street circa 2022. (Photo: Alyxaundria Sanford)

I had a dream the other night. I was back in my old apartment — the one that held me down for 14 years. I moved in when I was just 22, wide-eyed and hopeful, trying to carve out a life in New York City. I left at 36, seasoned by experiences of heartbreak and growth. That apartment saw me through everything.

It was my stability in an unstable chapter. Two rounds of grad school. Several bouts of unemployment —hustling to make rent and enjoy a little bit of life. Late nights chasing purpose. Early mornings filled with doubt. That space became my sanctuary — my crash pad, launchpad, and cocoon for becoming.

So when I dreamt I had moved back in, it felt comforting at first. Familiar. Predictable. Safe. But as I moved through the space, I started missing things from my new place: my washer and dryer, the trash chute, central air — the little luxuries I’d once dreamed of but now almost forget to appreciate.

And then I woke up with a knot in my chest. Because that dream wasn’t about real estate. It was about me. The parts of me I’ve outgrown. The parts that still call me back.

Right now, I’m more than halfway through a 90-day journey. I set out to reset: physically, mentally, emotionally, financially. And while I’ve seen growth in every area, there have been days where I’ve felt myself slipping. Not dramatically — but in ways that add up.

A skipped meal prep here. An unplanned expense there. Overindulging at happy hour. Moments where I default to an old way of coping or forget the structure I know keeps me grounded. But halfway through this challenge, I realize that slipping isn’t failure. It’s feedback. It’s my old self trying to find a way in — testing if there’s still room for her in this new chapter.

There are parts of her I still love. She was resourceful, spontaneous, and could make magic out of a mess. But she also ran on fumes. She normalized survival mode. She didn’t always know when to rest, when to say no, or when to stop spiraling.

I don’t live in that version of me anymore. And I don’t need to move back into that mindset — even when it feels easier, when I’m tired, or when I miss old patterns' simplicity. Because now, I have better tools. Better boundaries. And a clearer vision for the woman I’m becoming.

That dream was a reminder: Even growth can feel like grief sometimes. Letting go of who you were — especially when she helped you survive — isn’t always easy. But I’m learning that I can love her without letting her lead.