stomping grounds

I used to walk through Morningside Park almost every day. For years, it was the path between what I had to do and what I was trying to figure out — a shortcut from apartment to subway, from job to class, from version to version of myself.

The other day, I passed through again and saw something new: a deep fuchsia sculpture, part of a city parks installation. It stood near the basketball court like it had been dropped from the sky — angular and strange, beautiful in its presence.

I stopped and looked at it. Not just a glance, but a moment of attention. And in doing that, I realized something: I’d moved through this park so many times before, but rarely with that kind of presence.

This wasn’t here when I lived nearby. But I was. And the version of me who walked this path daily was still figuring herself out — how to listen to her body, how to trust her instincts, how to call herself a writer and believe it.

Now, years later, I walked the same route and felt different. I didn’t need to rush. I wasn’t chasing the next thing. I was simply there.

The sculpture reminded me that personal transformation isn’t loud or linear. It happens in moments, over time — until something quiet shifts and suddenly you can see it. Sometimes you don’t realize how far you’ve come until you revisit a place that once held your becoming.

There’s beauty in that return. And in seeing yourself more clearly because of it.

-L