Rewilded

Photo by Dylan Crawford on Unsplash

I thought I would be a City Girl until the day I died. Born in New York at a now defunct hospital on Manhattan’s West Side, I assumed that my world would always be framed by skyscrapers and subway lines. Even when I moved to Minneapolis for college, then Boston for graduate school, I never imagined a life outside a metropolis.

Nature and I were more like distant acquaintances—familiar but not close. Case in point: a drive through Maine. The open sunroof carried the sweet scent of pine, and instead of evoking the tree, it reminded me of a scented candle. It struck me then how removed I was from nature—not because the scent was unfamiliar, but because my instinct was to associate it with something artificial, a candle rather than the towering trees themselves.

Life’s circumstances changed, and I leapt at the opportunity to shed the city for New Hampshire—not far from Boston yet, it seemed to me, an entirely different world. The transition from concrete jungle to forest was not without hiccups and I missed the city’s lullaby of sirens and chatter. But here, in the still night, the sky was peppered with bright stars—far more than I’d ever seen before. The air smelled of pine instead of pavement, and the quiet wasn’t empty but alive with the rustle of leaves and the call of owls. I had traded the city's hum for something wilder, something that felt, curiously, like home.

In moving to New Hampshire, I’ve discovered new aspects of myself—particularly of the outdoor adventure variety. I’m not athletic in the least and have never been inclined towards sports. My partner, B, on the other hand, is very athletic and effortlessly skilled at every sport he tries. It can be rather intimidating.

When I moved to New Hampshire, I decided I wanted to learn how to kayak and signed up for a lesson on the river in the small town I was living in at the time. I showed up feeling both excited and a little nervous, memories of gym class flashing in my mind. My instructor was exceedingly patient as she walked me through the basics—how to hold the paddle, how to steer, and what to do if I flipped. Pushing off from the shore, I wobbled at first, my arms awkwardly moving through the motions. After a while, I found a rhythm, but it did not come naturally. The river was calm, the water reflecting the late afternoon sun, and as I glided slowly forward, I felt a quiet triumph.

When B and I took a guided kayaking tour together, which was his first time and my third post-lesson, he took to it instantly, paddling with effortless ease as if he’d been doing it for years. Before I knew it, he and our guide had taken off ahead, leaving me struggling in their wake. Flustered, my mind went blank. The harder I tried to correct my course, the more erratic my paddling became until, in a moment of pure disaster, I steered myself straight into a very nice gentleman who had been peacefully leaning back in his kayak, eyes closed—blissfully unaware that his serenity was about to be shattered. Thankfully, I have improved considerably, and our summers aren’t complete without plenty of time on Sagamore Creek, a tidal waterway that flows into the back channel of Newcastle Island, nestled between Portsmouth Harbor and Little Harbor.

I also bought a hardtail mountain bike so that I could ride New England’s stunning rail trails—former railway corridors that have been converted into multi-use paths. Now, learning how to mountain bike has been a crash course—quite literally—in pain and progress. I've taken A LOT of falls—there's a broken finger and more than a few faded scars to prove it. But with each tumble, I got better at handling my bike and understanding the terrain. Even with the setbacks, and like kayaking, I kept coming back because the joy of the ride and the views along the trails are worth every bruise. There’s something about the calm of the woods, the burn of my muscles, and the rhythmic spin of the wheels that lulls and soothes the mind.

I don’t like winter—bone-chilling winds and numb fingers the kind of weather that makes me question why humans ever settled in snowy climates to begin with. And yet, in an effort to conquer the cold, I found myself strapping on snowshoes and clomping around like a moose on stilts. At first, every step felt unnatural but as I tuned into the crunch of snow beneath my feet, something shifted. The silence of the winter woods, the crisp clean air, and the childlike glee of carving a path through untouched snow—somehow, it all started to make sense. Grudgingly, I can admit that snowshoeing isn’t the worst way to survive a long New England winter.

Our backyard is a wildlife thoroughfare. Bears, bobcats, foxes, rabbits, and deer all make regular visits. Nearly every morning, a chorus of cardinals, blue jays, and titmice serenades us, a beautiful cacophony of individual voices—chirps, trills, whistles, and warbles. We leave offerings for the three crows that frequent the woods beside our house, in an attempt to befriend them. Finally, they seem to recognize us and caw loudly when they’re here!

This new life has shaped a new version of me, one that embraces adventure, quiet moments, and simply being alive in nature. I once defined myself by city lights and subways, but this new life has rewritten that narrative. And I learned that change isn’t about losing who you were—it’s about unfolding into someone you never knew you could be.