Everywhere the Same

Years in Berlin taught me a specific feeling—that moment when a city stops being yours. It’s not one thing. The creativity that pulled me there starts consuming me instead. The changes pile up and the place I fell for keeps disappearing. The people, the streets, the late nights that mattered become someone else’s memory. I’m still there but I’m lingering at a funeral.

So I dreamed about other places. London, Stockholm, Tokyo. But mostly New York, because that’s the promise—make it there and you make it anywhere. The opportunities will be bigger, the people more real, the experiences actually matter. Leaving will fix the staleness. I thought another city had what I was missing.

The people who actually made it to New York had the same story. Vashtie wrote about hiding her deep sadness over the city for years—the boredom, the despair, closed doors, vanished inspiration. She finally admitted it: what else could she do?

It’s the same everywhere. The city isn’t the problem. Whatever you’re actually looking for, it’s not there. New York promises transformation and delivers real estate. You outgrow Berlin thinking another place will feel different. You arrive and realize you brought yourself.

The dream of making it somewhere is seductive because it has a shape—a place, a marker, a finish line. It’s easier to chase that than to sit with the actual work. No geography gifts you what you’re desperate for.

I left Berlin imagining New York would feel like a promotion. I got there and felt exactly the same. The company was different but the loneliness was identical.