Having lived in some of the most remarkable cities in the world, like Amsterdam, Milan, and Dublin, and visited over 40 more, I realize how privileged I am to share my truth about New York as a local.

Yes, New York is huge, messy, and filled with too much of everything: the stunning and the ugly, the fast and the loud. It is often too ridiculous to be real. But it is also surprisingly livable—if you find your village.

The village is often a mindset; it’s not just a physical place. One of my first experiences after moving here from cozy Europe was seeing a man lifeless on the street. He looked exhausted, perhaps dehydrated, or worse. It was shocking, but what stayed with me forever was the response: two massive fire trucks and several firefighters arrived instantly. A group of heroes spent their energy trying to rescue a man who might have lost all hope for humanity. That is New York: it’s rogue, it’s real, and it’s beautiful. New Yorkers come together in their humanity, regardless of who you are or where you come from.

When the pandemic hit, we had the option to leave. We looked at the suburbs, but the silence felt like isolation. Humans, like most mammals, are meant to be raised in community. In the suburbs, I saw empty playgrounds; in the city, the playgrounds are the heart of the "village." We chose to stay for our mental health and our social fabric. We formed "pods," supported local restaurants by sipping cocktails in heated outdoor sheds in the middle of winter, and shared the weight of parenting with friends who became family. NYC came through the hardest times as a community of survivors.

I want my kids to understand that the world is a massive melting pot. I want them to know that people look, act, and live differently, and that none of it is a reason to be afraid. In our neighborhood, kids learn to navigate the full spectrum of the human experience. They might give a sandwich to a neighbor experiencing homelessness in the morning, and by evening, they might be sitting in a restaurant next to a high-ranking executive. And if that executive rolls their eyes because my kids are being "annoying" (as kids often are!), my children won't be frazzled. They are learning to occupy their space in the world with a sense of belonging that isn't tied to performance.

Looking back at the years of having both a baby and a toddler—arguably the hardest, most sleep-deprived era of my life—the city was my literal savior. For me, the "village" was the ability to roll out of bed, strap the baby into a carrier, put the toddler on a scooter, and hit the pavement with nothing on my face but a pair of frames to hide the exhaustion. No playdate arrangements, no GPS, no logistical gymnastics. Within seconds of leaving the house, I was surrounded by a sea of random parents who were also just trying to survive the morning. There is a specific, collective exhale that happens on an NYC sidewalk. You feel your blood pressure drop simply by virtue of being in the "pack." We didn't need to speak; we just needed to see that we weren't the only ones in the thick of it. In a world of over-scheduled lives, that spontaneous, zero-friction sanity was the only thing that kept me grounded.

One mistake people make is thinking a village is some idyllic, "Live, Laugh, Love" commune where everyone agrees on the best brand of oat milk. It’s really not that. A village is your Republican neighbor who sprinkles Jesus-propaganda on your kids without being asked. She’s a lot, but she loves your family, you bring her food for the holidays, and she watches your dog while you're away. It’s the "soccer moms" who, quite frankly, scare the shit out of me, but they never fail to produce a bandaid or a snack the second you realize you forgot yours. It’s the mailman, the janitor, and the legendary crossing guard who adopts a "You Shall Not Pass" Gandalf-stance against an oncoming taxi and is able to manage even the bikes. It’s the barista who knows you only drink soy and treats that information like a state secret.

A huge part of this journey is our school. It's not the only school in the East Village that runs on these principles, like its refusal to be a "testing factory." It prioritizes Self-Esteem (who you are) over Self-Confidence (what you can perform). It is famous for diversity and inclusion and a "child-first" education—focusing on the development of the spirit, not just the score.

Diversity here isn't a buzzword; it’s our pantry. We are walking distance from incredible food markets where the quality of fresh, organic produce is world-class. We are raising our kids in a literal melting pot where they can experience the world’s best performances on Broadway or world-renowned art and science exhibitions, all while understanding that a high-quality, nourishing meal is a fundamental human ritual. In many parts of the world, life is lived through a windshield. In New York, we trade car seats for sidewalks. Our lifestyle is grounded in the freedom of physical movement. My kids don't just "go" to places; they experience the city’s rhythm on foot. This mobility builds a different kind of resilience and spatial intelligence—an active engagement with the world that a screen or a car simply cannot provide.

Do I ever want to leave? Of course. New York is a relentless teacher, and there are days when the "too-much-ness" of it all makes me crave the absolute silence of Iceland, my favorite place on Earth. I dream of that vast, tectonic stillness. But then I remember the winters; cold doesn't scare me, but the lack of sunlight eventually draws me back to the heat of human friction. I’ve also contemplated moving back to the Netherlands or Sweden to be closer to my roots. But every time I look at the life we’ve built here, I realize a difficult truth: while our history is there, our actual family is here. Our "village" isn't a bloodline; it’s the community that stood by us when the world felt like it was shifting under our feet.

As a Tech Anthropologist, I navigate the complexities of AI and the future of tech every day. But I come home to NYC to remind myself what is real. We aren't building a digital casino for our kids; we are building a foundation of ancient human rituals: community, curiosity, and the freedom to be exactly who they are.

It would be dishonest to ignore the elephant in the room: the cost of living. New York is becoming increasingly difficult for families, and the financial pressure is real. I fully recognize my absolute privilege. For me, affordability isn't just about the money; it’s about the "sanity tax." Many choose the large suburban house with the yard and the extra square footage. But that house often comes with a hidden cost: a multi-hour commute that eats into the only non-renewable resource we have: our time. I work in Manhattan, and the ability to be with my kids within a 10-minute bike ride or a 20-minute walk is a luxury no mansion can buy. I will choose a small condo every time if it means I’m home with my family instead of sitting on a train.

This choice has turned me into an aspiring minimalist. In a city like this, you learn that you don’t need a massive house just to fill it with "stuff" you eventually have to maintain. I prioritize experiences, movement, and presence over square footage. In the end, I've found that a smaller footprint leads to a larger life.