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Three years ago today, I moved to New York. It was the day after my mom’s birthday. My family and I woke up very early in the morning to say our goodbyes. I cried a lot. My dad and I went to the airport. I was thankful that it was dark because I couldn’t stop crying. Then my dad and I got on a plane to New York. A few days after that, I cried again when I said goodbye to my dad. Then I opened a gift my mom had sent with my dad, the book “Love You Forever,” and started crying even more. Moving to New York meant a lot of crying for me and I wondered what I was doing to myself. Growing pains are hard.

Three years ago I moved into my first apartment with a stranger in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. I started my first real job. I wore tennis shoes to work and then switched into heels (eventually I ditched the heels, but I was totally Melanie Griffith Working Girl for awhile). I picked out which health insurance plan I wanted, even though I really didn’t understand the process. I filled out forms for my life insurance beneficiaries — my best friends and my sister. I hoped I wouldn’t die by getting hit by a cab or mugged by one of the 15,000 scary people out on the streets or internally combusting from all the noise or catching a rare disease from touching a subway pole.

Three years ago, I moved to a city where I knew only two people — my cousin and a friend from college, Lindsey. I got confused on the subway and sometimes wound up on Canal Street when I thought I was going to Times Square. I wanted to cover my ears because everything here was so loud. I said “Excuse me” when the situation called for it and people looked at me funny. After depositing my first paycheck, I bought my first iPod.

Three years later I am living with my cousin in an apartment that feels like home. I’m a pro at navigating the subway. I still get excited when I see celebrities. I’ve actually been tapped by a cab when I was going through a crosswalk and managed to walk away just fine (though with some nasty bruises). I realized that the people here aren’t scary, just different from the people I grew up around, that their vibrance and diversity is what makes New York City the way it is. The magazine I worked for ran an article called “25 Reasons I Love New York” compiled from reader submissions. This one particularly sums up what New York means to me too:

I love New York because it’s inconvenient. It makes you work a little harder. It wears you out. It forces you to interact with life. With the street musicians. With taxi cab drivers. Hot dog vendors. Hipsters. Baristas. Pigeons. Trash. Trees. Graffiti. Flower shops. Coffee shops. People riding the subway. People riding bikes. People talking on cell phones. People talking to themselves. You can’t hide from life in New York. Poor. Rich. Dirty. Ugly. Hungry. Spectacular. Honest. Unforgettable. I love New York. Unconditionally.

Three years seems like such an incredibly long time ago, especially considering all that has happened in the last six months. I was laid off (on my dad’s birthday). I started a freelancing job on my birthday (starting to notice a trend of life events coinciding with birthdays…). Then I traveled for five weeks. Had jury duty for three weeks. Was able to spend a solid amount of time at home for the holidays. I dog sat.

Three years later I am unemployed, trying to find a job that will keep me happy and keep me in New York. Funny the irony that life throws at you sometimes. Now I’m trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life. Suggestions and job offers welcome. Just try me. All ears over here. I think there are jobs out there that I would love, but I don’t even know they exist. I’m open to a new experience, preferably one that pays all my bills with leftovers to fund my retirement, buy eclectic picture frames and purchase a unicorn.

Today I felt an intense urge to clean out my closet. I’m spending most of my days hunting for jobs, hopefully the next place where I can meet new people who will eventually become my friends and a place where I can learn new things, and if it happens to be somewhere I can see celebrities, well even better. But the hunt can be pretty overwhelming. So I decided I needed to clean. That whole feeling that maybe if I get my closet in order, everything else will have an easier time falling into place.

And what did I find but the customer receipt from Bank of America from when I deposited my first paycheck. A paycheck for seven days instead of the normal 10 since I started mid-week, which initially freaked me out when I didn’t realize this because the amount was not what my dad had budgeted and used in the Excel spreadsheet that basically said after taxes, health insurance, rent, utilities, student loans and food that I would have a whopping $5 of fun money each month. Thankfully I didn’t spend as much on life as my dad budgeted and I was able to have more than $5 of fun.

I have absolutely no clue what the next three years have in store for me. And that scares me. Because for so long I knew that I wanted to be in magazine journalism. I was on the yearbook staff all through high school and knew I would major in journalism in college. I worked on the yearbook, newspaper and magazine through college and new I wanted to end up at a magazine in New York. By some stroke of magic, I was offered the first job I applied for in New York shortly after graduation. I worked at that magazine for two and a half years, received a promotion, became incredibly close with co-workers and could see my career path clearly charted out. Then I was laid off in August 2009 and everything changed. I remember thinking afterward that the lay off was an opportunity. Which is much harder to grasp now that my career path is waiting for a new direction, one that I can’t chart out at the moment. For as long as I thought my future was in magazines, this economy is making me think otherwise.

But if these first three years here are any indication of my next three, I will make it through everything good, bad and scary just fine, thanks to my friends, my family, a couple cries and a good run.

Here are a few “just another day in the city” observations from this weekend (a little less exciting, but memorable nonetheless).

Celebrity sighting
Upon leaving work, I forced myself to walk through Times Square. I occasionally dare myself to do this, not so much as a test of patience or grace, but more to remind myself that I live in New York. That this place I dreamed of living when I was in high school has become my reality. That a few blocks from my office is the center of the tourist universe. And while I was cursing tourists under my breath for abruptly stopping and taking up the entire sidewalk, I noticed Saturday Night Live alum Rachel Dratch quietly walking past me. Spotting celebrities will never get old to me.

Sidewalk portraits
The artists who line the entrance to Central Park have an overwhelming affinity for showcasing their drawings of Angelina Jolie. They display other celebrities and regular people too, but it must be a requirement to set up shop on this path that you know how to draw Angelina specifically. While most of the artists’ work appears interchangeable, you can weed out one dude whose Angie portrait barely resembles her.

I’ll admit that when my sister and I were younger, our parents let us get caricatures done when we were on vacation. But I’m still baffled by how many artists are in Central Park everyday. I’m not sure how much business they have at 8:30 a.m. on a Sunday, but I appreciated the note one man left on his chair next to his easel that listed his phone number and said that if you called, he’d come right down. Which made me wonder if he’d climbed up in the tree or something. I sure wouldn’t mind a treehouse in Central Park.

Product instructions
Picked up cottonballs from the grocery store and got a kick out of the suggestions/instructions for use: “BABY CARE: Soft and gentle for cleaning a baby’s delicate skin. ARTS & CRAFTS: Ideal for art projects and creative hobbies.” Or, you know, removing eye makeup. Whatever.

Subway characters
I remember yelling at my sister a lot when we were younger because she blatantly stared at people. To the point that even I was uncomfortable. Subway commutes make it entirely too easy — and guilt free — to look at people. So I stare. A lot. And that seems to be OK with everyone else. One man caught my attention yesterday. He reminded me of a cross between Mr. Clean and actor/diabetic/Liberty Medical and Quaker Oats spokesman Wilford Brimley. Which is to say he was not a small guy and looked rather intimidating. Once he sat down, I noticed his baby blue shirt said “Animal Haven” in the center. Then I noticed that he also had his ear pierced, much like Mr. Clean, and that he had tattoos covering the majority of his arms. There’s something about picturing a large, gruff looking, middle-aged man playing with kittens that makes my day. It wasn’t until he exited the train that I noticed all of his tattoos were of animals — mostly dogs. I nearly melted.