I just heard the best, most wonderful news EVER — Call Me By Your Name is getting a sequel at the end of October and the news has warmed me from the inside-out. If you’ve yet to read the book or see the movie, I envy you because that means you get to enjoy both again for the first time. In both the novel and its adaptation onto film, Love is a lead character along with Oliver and Elio, and written in a way that reminds the reader that love is never just one thing.

When I first moved to the New York City I had just gotten out of a long-term relationship and was single for the first time in my 20s. Until then, I had felt that when people talked about love, while there were countless types of loving relationships one could have, the ultimate love one was supposed to seek was romantic. It was the creme de la creme, the penthouse suite, the first class of relationships, and the one you were expected to want the most, to work on the most, and to envision defining your future happiness. And to that *hits mic and clears throat* I CALL BS! Hear me out.

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Walking to dinner at a friend’s house the other night, I came to the realization that New York City is full of a lot of umbrella judgement. Unless it’s raining so hard that Noah’s Arc sent you a text telling you they’re three minutes away, DO NOT open your umbrella. It is like everyone else made a secret pact to muscle through the downpour and give sideways looks to anyone (me) who dares to show up to a social event not looking like they’d just jumped in a pool.

Look New York, life here is already challenging enough. I carry my laundry on my back every couple weeks hoping I don’t drop a sock (or, God forbid, an actual piece of clothing) on the sidewalk because once it’s down, I can never touch it again. So lighten up about the umbrella judgment please.

What a tangent but no, this post isn’t actually about umbrellas or sometimes judgmental New Yorkers or laundry. It is about (believe it or not) the life lessons I’m taking away from Freestyle Love Supreme and having an out-of-the-blue, one-for-the-books, totally-magic New York City night.

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The other night I went to a birthday party where the only person I knew was the host. If you’ve been following my writing for a while, you’ve probably picked up on the fact that being the new person walking into any social gathering is my kryptonite. Give me medical emergencies, traveling to communist China, but please don’t invite me to your wedding where I know zero people. My nervousness started as a low hum the week before and each day, the dial would turn up incrementally. By the time Saturday night rolled around, my nerves had grown from ignorable background noise to headlining act at Madison Square Garden. But this time around, I was determined to go come hell or high water — or in reality, come four trains, one Lyft, and three hours of delays.

As you might expect, the party was lovely and after chatting for a couple hours, I was reminded how much I really do love connecting with new people in this city. But perhaps what surprised me the most was that the night left me feeling brave. Like proud-of-myself, call-my-mum-on-the-phone brave. Not because I had done anything particularly courageous on paper, but because I had done something particularly courageous for myself.

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