Mourning New York

On burnout, leaving the city that shaped me, and slowly piecing myself back together with gold.

I'm sitting at the yoga café in my neighbourhood, doing something different. It’s part of a quiet rebellion I’ve started against the predictable — my new mantra is exploring over routine.

Let me set the scene for you: it’s raining softly, and I’ve got a front-row seat to the canal. Sailboats glide by every few minutes, like they’re on a schedule just for me. Jazz hums through my headphones, raindrops tap gently on the awning above — it's a little symphony of serenity. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I’m stepping into the version of me who knows how she wants to live — and isn’t afraid to do it.

A little over a week ago, my fiancé said to me, “You should leave the house a little more.” And he wasn’t wrong. I’ve been home a lot. It’s been my comfort zone — especially after taking a break from work, burned out and emotionally scorched. At the time, it felt like a win just to lie in bed, head on the pillow, comfort show playing, and know that I could breathe.

But there he was again, with the golden nuggets. He’s always right (but don’t tell him I said that). And it made me pause. Because he reminded me of something I already knew:

I have to live my life. I have to leave the house, step beyond my comfort zone, and let life happen. Find the good energy out in the world. Notice the quirky, the beautiful, the fleeting — before it all drifts quietly by.

Back in New York, life had a different rhythm. Fast, full, and sometimes a little chaotic — but it was mine. Then COVID hit. Everything cracked open. I lost my job — I still consider that job the one that got away — and the scaffolding I had built around my life started to fall away. Suddenly, I was in a new-ish relationship, living in a new apartment, collecting unemployment checks every two weeks, and trying to make sense of a city that had gone quiet.

I did what I could: I signed up for photography classes, made content (still didn’t start that TikTok account — which in hindsight, I definitely should have. Shoulda, woulda, coulda), and I ran. A lot. It helped. But slowly, the idea of moving back to Denmark crept in. It felt like the grown-up choice. Like a move that would “make sense” for my career.

(Spoiler alert: it didn’t.)

I moved back. Got a big girl corporate job. Actually, I landed it while I was still in New York — waking up at 4 AM for interviews because of the time difference. Ambitious, right?

And at first, it felt like the payoff. Like I had manifested the next logical step. But soon enough, I found myself knee-deep in deadlines, meetings, performance metrics, and endless “just circling back” emails — just not in the city that once made me feel alive and like anything was possible.

Because that’s what New York gave me. It was vibrant, unpredictable, and somehow always there for me when I needed to reinvent myself. It’s where I became an adult. Where I failed hard and succeeded quietly. Where I learned to walk fast, speak up, and trust my instincts. Where I met the love of my life.

So even though I was showing up in this shiny new job, I was also grieving something. Not just the city, but the version of me that existed there — lit up, curious, and deeply connected to my own rhythm. Here, everything felt… muted. Like I had checked the box, but missed the point.

And over time, that disconnect caught up with me. I kept pushing forward — deadlines, deliverables, performance reviews — until one day, my body and mind simply said no. Burnout didn’t arrive like a storm. It crept in like fog. Slow, heavy, and hard to see through.

I stopped recognizing myself. The ambitious, creative version of me had faded into someone just trying to make it through the day — while still holding onto the pressure to build something bigger. To grow on social media. To chase the dream. To prove (mostly to myself) that I was more than my job title, more than my inbox. And to be fair, it worked well for a long time. Because creating content is my passion — it sets my heart on fire. It gave me purpose and good energy.

But it also created that quiet tug-of-war between needing rest and craving purpose. I found myself exhausted not just from working, but from wanting. Wanting to create. Wanting to be seen. Wanting to make something meaningful of it all.

And then there was the corporate part. The part where I kept showing up, doing the work, reaching the goals. After a few years, I started dreaming of more. I wanted a promotion. I earned it. I tried, more than once. But somehow, the promotions kept landing in the laps of my colleagues. One after another. Left and right. It felt like shouting into a soundproof room. Being visible, but not seen.

I started questioning everything. My value. My timing. My tone. Was I too ambitious? Not ambitious enough? Too soft? Not soft enough? It was like trying to climb a ladder that kept rearranging itself just out of reach. And all the while, I was buried in work, never feeling like I could finish the to-do list. I was trying to stay grateful. Trying to be the team player. Trying to hold on.

Eventually, I couldn’t anymore. I paused — not because I wanted to, but because I had to. I stepped away, burned out and empty, unsure of what would come next.

But maybe this break — this pause — isn’t the end of anything. Maybe it’s the beginning of something else.

There’s this Japanese ritual called kintsugi. When a piece of pottery breaks, instead of hiding the cracks, they mend it with gold. They believe the object becomes more beautiful, more valuable, because of its history. The damage doesn’t diminish it — it becomes part of its story. A mark of resilience.

I think I’m learning to do that with myself. Gluing the pieces back together, not perfectly, but intentionally. Letting the gold be my creativity, my curiosity, the long walks, the rain on the awning, the jazz in my ears. Letting it be the quiet act of sitting here, writing this, instead of spinning on a never-ending to-do list.

No, I don’t live in New York anymore. And yes, part of me is still mourning that. Maybe always will. But I also know this: the version of me who lived there still exists. She didn’t vanish — she just cracked a little. And maybe, just maybe, she’s being rebuilt into someone even stronger. Even softer.

Who knows — maybe one day we’ll move back. Or maybe I’ll find a way to carry that energy with me, wherever I go.

For now, I’m choosing to live. To notice. To explore. To let the gold seep in.

Until then,
Christina