The Past is a Shirt That No Longer Fits You

My mom basically handed over her computer playroom to me as my office.  I’d wake up early and spend 10–11 hours a day researching entrepreneurship, writing content, learning how to build digital products. The pandemic was strange like that - everything was falling apart, but inside that collapse, there was a clarity and relief of discipline and daily productivity - driven by a single message. I didn’t want to go back to someone else’s company. I wanted to build my own.

As August rolled in, we both knew it was time. We avoided the topic like the plague, yet we both knew it was there - hanging between us, and we once brought it up at he exact same time and we simply hugged each other.

She made a big farewell dinner, one of those loud, loving meals that ended in tears we tried to hide from each other. We spent the night reminiscing and the next morning we tried to act natural but we both were sad - and then we mocked each others sadness. Why all the dramatics! I packed up my things and by early afternoon the Uber was waiting in front of her house. It took two trips back and forth to the car to get everything I had and after I hugged her goodbye for the 10th time, I grabbed my last bag and headed out to go back to NYC.

Her cat, the friendliest of the 3, named Red - jumped onto the window sill and started howling as I carried my bags out. He’d never done that before and it made us laugh through our tears. 

An hour into the drive, I became emotional - and it took a few moments to realize what was really happening. A part of me thought I was going back to March 2020 — back to the version of me who had a boyfriend, a job, an apartment, friends in the city, Friday lunches, and weekend dancing. But that world was gone. I was driving toward a city that had changed, toward a version of myself that no longer fit.

And then, as if the universe wanted to make sure I understood, a song came on the radio — a song I’d never heard before.
One of the lines was: “The past is a shirt that no longer fits you.”
And I just lost it. Because it was true.

I got back to New York and rented an Airbnb near my old neighborhood, but it was too much. The streets, the skyline, the silence — everything was haunted by memory. Within a week, I moved to another Airbnb in Queens. It wasn’t glamorous, but it gave me the distance I needed. I worked. I built. I pushed forward.

By September, my first product was ready to launch. I was rebuilding piece by piece, learning to be my own boss, my own motivator, my own team. For the first time, I felt like I was clawing my way out of the wreckage. I had spent 8 weeks designing and carefully constructing a digital animated resume video. I launched it with pride, posted about it on my socials. 

Three days later it made one sale, from my sister.

Then, a letter arrived - a cease-and-desist from a lawyer. Another company owned the trademark to the name I’d chosen. I’d checked the website availability but never thought to check trademarks. Luckily, they let me off easily — no damages, just shut it down and delete everything.

So I did.
It was October 2020  -  my favorite month. Normally the air felt like possibility. That year it just felt empty.

I had lost my company, my apartment, my independence, my love, and my sense of home all within eight months. It was the fifth loss of the year, and I didn’t even have the words yet to understand what it all meant.

As I removed the last of the assets from the webpage and sent a note thanking my web designer for everything, I couldn't help but feel so defeated and wondered what the next day would bring.