Two years in New York. Two years that were never in the plan. Two years that became a defining chapter.
I am seated at my desk, as I write Traversing the Terrible Twenties; the sequel to By the End of Your Teens. I hope to publish as I turn 30, which is just about half a year away. As my fingers glide over the keyboard, heart heavy with nostalgia and mind racing with memories, I realize that writing about this time is both exhilarating and exhausting. There are emotions—so many raw emotions. The joy of discovery, the weight of loneliness, the thrill of ambition, and the quiet ache of knowing that every moment in New York was temporary.
New York wasn’t just a city to me; it was a pivot. A place I never thought I would call home, yet it became the setting for some of my most profound transformations. It is fascinating—writing this story isn’t painful because of heartbreak or hardship, but because of the sheer intensity of it all. The nights of feeling alive under the city lights. The mornings of sipping coffee in solitude, mapping out a future that felt both limitless and uncertain. The people who entered my life and changed me, sometimes subtly, sometimes profoundly.
I have always believed that storytelling is about clarity—about understanding the why before the what. Why am I writing this? Why am I choosing to tell this story now? Maybe because I want to honor the version of myself that walked through Manhattan’s streets, that fought for a place in rooms where voices like mine were rarely heard. Perhaps because I want to leave behind a Blue Print for those who will come after me—because I never had one myself.
And maybe because New York, despite all its chaos, changed me in a way no other place could.
A City That Was Never on the Vision Board
New York was never a part of the plan. I had mapped out so much for my life, but this city was never a destination I saw myself in. To be quite honest, I always saw myself traveling, and A LOT, but I never saw myself relocating from Malawi, and let alone to New York. Yet, when I arrived, it fit. Perfectly, in the way that unexpected things sometimes do. It was a whirlwind—moving from Malawi, transitioning from entrepreneurship to a corporate analyst role, stepping into rooms where global conversations were being shaped.
In the span of those two years, I experienced the city in layers. The professional hustle of working with the UN. The creative thrill of building my brand and telling the story of Kwathu Kollective and Ntha Foundation on international stages. The deeply personal journey of navigating relationships, friendships, and self-discovery. I met people who inspired me, and some who challenged me. I had encounters that were fleeting yet unforgettable—like those in elevators, where conversations turned into something more, something worth writing about.
The Power of Community in a City That Never Stops
People say New York is lonely, but I built a community that felt anything but performative. That mattered to me. I was VERY lonely, but I also somehow found spaces where I could be myself without having to explain or defend who I was. I met dreamers, builders, and thinkers. I stood on stages, spoke at panels, and built networks that stretched beyond the city’s borders.
Yet, for all the magic of NYC, there were moments of doubt. Of questioning whether I belonged in these spaces, whether my voice was loud enough, whether my story was worth telling. But New York has a way of forcing you to claim your space. And I did.
Would I Ever Move Back?
People ask me this all the time. Do I miss New York? The answer is: I miss the people. I miss the energy. I miss the way the city made me feel—invincible, unbreakable. But do I see myself living there again? I truly do not know. Maybe. Maybe not.
New York was perfect when it needed to be. It was a necessary detour, a chapter that shaped me. But I do not quite believe in repeating chapters. I believe great stories always move forward.
Writing Through the Waves of Emotion
As I write Traversing the Terrible Twenties, the sequel to By the End of Your Teens, I find myself reliving each moment. Some pages are easy to write—filled with laughter, with light. Others are heavy, requiring pauses to sit with the emotions. But that’s what writing does. It forces you to confront the depth of what you’ve lived.
I hope to publish and republish both books as I turn 30, as a way of marking the transition from one era to another. This is me, balancing the rush of moving forward with the need to properly reflect on what has passed.
New York changed me. And I know I will carry pieces of it wherever I go. But as I close this chapter, I do so with gratitude. I am different now. Better. And isn’t that the whole point of the journey?
In continued search for healing,
Ntha
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