Before I landed in New York, I’d already convinced myself I’d be doing the city wrong.
New York is a trip that seems to demand your top speed. 30,000-step itineraries, early starts after late nights, neighbourhoods stacked one after another, and the pressure to jigsaw every viral experience into each waking hour.
I’d watched others arrive with enormous lists and somehow leave having seen it all. I wanted that accomplished feeling too.
But I live with lupus. My mobility isn’t what it once was. I love travelling deeply, but my energy and comfort levels don’t often match my enthusiasm to see the world. I wondered if New York might expose that more than anywhere else.
I planned excitedly for months. But underneath that excitement was a nagging worry that I’d come home feeling as though I hadn’t really done New York at all.
Social media only amplified it: crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, coffee in Soho, a rooftop or gallery, somehow all before lunchtime. Why couldn’t I be on the go for hours without thinking about it?
The journey
The first thing I had to accept was that New York is physically exhausting. And that began long before I arrived at JFK.
For years, I approached long-haul flights by booking a ticket and simply getting on in discomfort. This time, I advocated for myself.
Flying with Virgin Atlantic, I discovered how much support was available when I asked for it, from extra space to assistance from staff who genuinely wanted to help. I realised how often I’d tried to adapt myself to travel rather than asking how travel could adapt to me.
The pace
Then came the walking.