I knew I had to move, but I was surprised by my resistance.

I change my hair a lot. With relationships, I love hard, process it and get on with it.

As a banking consultant, I was on various projects a year — different organizational cultures, different procedures, sometimes different cities.

However, I counterbalanced change with my retreat from the world: my home. I didn’t move much growing up — one apartment in Washington Heights and a house in Carol City is all I knew until I was 17. My mother loved making a home — she knitted bedspreads, she sewed curtains (and Lord, did I have to hem them). Her bed, with perfectly fluffed pillows, looked straight out of Bloomingdale’s home department.

I inherited the same love of elegant comfort you achieve when you stay put. Since 1996, I have lived in all of FIVE places, which is extremely rare for New Yorkers. I looked at friends who moved every year with judgy bewilderment.

Just like many New Yorkers this year, I have been living at the intersection of High Rent and Staying Indoors for the Foreseeable Future. Given my financial goals, it makes total sense to move.

But does anyone live in New York because it makes sense? My friend Terrance and longtime New Yorker sums it up brilliantly: “Living in New York is like being in an abusive relationship.” Not much makes logical sense — alternate side street parking, manspreading, paying thousands in rent without having a washer/dryer (I have one which is why I have stayed here for 11 years).

This is my brain on pandemic induced thoughts of moving.

Me: You can move back to Miami. Your mom misses you.

Also Me: They don’t wear masks and I’ll end up macing somebody. Not smart in a Stand Your Ground state.

Me: But there’s Art Basel and whatever they call Little Haiti now? Black people are moving in -

Also Me: Remember the project you did there a few years ago? It was dope to live on the beach. But when you asked Black people where they hung out no one knew.

Me: But your mom -

Also Me: It was so nice to be at the Met without the hordes of tourists.

Me: You can go to Dominican Republic with your dad.

Also Me: But I HATE HATE Bachata. There is crime and Boca Chica is a mess. And where will I get oat milk creamer?

Me: Opens rent statement. But you should really move.

Also Me: Ugh, leave me alone! Grabs clutch. Goes for a walk in Fort Greene Park, devours burrata ravioli at Evelina’s. Takes in the Brooklyn vibe the pandemic can’t kill.

Me: Where can you get this?

This went on for months until I was doing reference research for content when I came across my grandmother’s immigration records.

Mami and Abuela being stylish

Baudilia Campistruz y Castellaños was the most stylish woman I ever knew, elegantly understated and gracefully exacting.

Mami and Abuela.jpg — Mami and Abuela being stylist

A talented seamstress, she made most of her own clothes. I loved looking through the Harper Bazaar’s she used for patterns. Even at home she was ready for something else. She was rarely seen without her gold Bulova watch with a blue sapphire dial, her white, thick hair coiffed to the back, her air fragrant with her signature scent, La Habanita. She believed beauty had a rightful place in everyday living: her coffee table was lined with Lalique figurines and she used fine china everyday.

She fought hard for her life. One of 18 children, she was from Guantanamo, a world away from Havana. Big families, needed for working farmland, were not uncommon. Even with its beautiful beaches highlighted by lush mountains, and home to some of the world’s best musicians, El Oriente was then and still is, rural and poor. And no surprise, primarily Black.

She left Cuba for New York in June 1958. The Cuban Revolution had been going on for 5 years and Batista was losing. My grandmother knew change was on the horizon, none of it good.

She returned shortly after to see her deathly ill mother in Oriente, where the war was raging. She fought her way through military checkpoints to see her one last time. Typically reserved, she yelled at anyone who would listen: “This is Communism!” Few heeded her words. Castro came into power a few months later and Cuba changed forever.

I cried when I realized how old she was when she immigrated.

Forty two. My age.

I wondered if she was afraid like me, if she had the same questions. What will happen? What if I regret it?

If it wasn’t for her willingness to surrender to the unknown, I would not have been born. I like to think I am her dream: I live on my own terms in a way she could not. Given the opportunity, she probably would have been a fashion designer. At my age, she left my 19 year old mom, her only child, and changed her entire life. She entered 1950s New York being unmarried, Black and uneducated, a combatant in a different kind of war than the one she left. She worked in factories and as a maid to get my mother to the US. Along with her 3 sisters, she was responsible for many family members being able to immigrate.

I got my love of New York from her. Fresh off the plane with my poofy, lace dress into 1980s Harlem, I inhaled the aliveness of salsa and hip hop playing in the street, the men seated on crates playing dominoes, the drug dealer waiting by the phone booth, and I knew it was where I wanted to be. I stared out of her window for hours, marveling at how something important seemed to be happening all the time.

The truth is my dad and I have been ignoring he shouldn’t live alone due to a health condition. Who knows — maybe I will grow to tolerate Bachata. I have done my due diligence on where to find oat milk. New York is far from dead and I can hop back in without missing a beat.

As I contemplate the changes we will have to make in 2021 (this ain’t over, kid), I am comforted that my ancestors made unfathomable decisions, and not only survived, but managed to thrive.

My grandmother gave me an invaluable gift: the power of choice. As you think about how many things have been out of your control this year, consider you have more options than you can appreciate.

When in doubt, go with our family’s motto: Pa’lante. Forward.