I had transformed into someone else while in New York, so I decided to bring my child to meet that version of me.

We stand before a golden-framed Italian Renaissance artwork at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It depicts a rosy-cheeked white baby with impossibly fluffy curls and a weary mother wrapped in dark fabric, as if life has drained from her. 'What do you think of this one?' I ask my nine-year-old daughter, Maya.

Her green eyes absorb the scene. She has suddenly shot up in height, like a young deer still getting used to its long legs. She enthusiastically begins, 'This is Baby Marlow and his mother, Prue, and they are currently being haunted by a zombie cheerleader who happens to be outside their front door right now... '

Maya and I explore the Met in this manner, one artwork after another. We pause at each piece, and she shares the story behind it—all the action just beyond the frame, the swirling emotions evident in the brushwork and color choices.

Our little game started spontaneously when she remarked, 'Momma, these paintings seem like frozen stories—moments captured in time.'

'They really do, don't they?' I replied, pointing at a nearby painting. 'What do you think the story of this one is?' And thus we continued our journey.

Two decades ago, I would burst out of my Barnard dorm, cross Central Park, and arrive at the Met for a study break. I would wander for hours until my feet begged me to stop. I never once thought about what it would be like to bring my own daughter here. I still felt like a lost girl myself—an 18-year-old mix of boldness and fear, uprooted from my only home in Colorado Springs.

Eventually, I became part of the city in ways that even surprised me. My friends back in Colorado would roll their eyes at my all-black ensembles and envy my easy access to our favorite hip-hop artists: The Roots, Common, Black Star. After graduating in 2002, I moved to Brooklyn, spending the next decade around Prospect Park, ultimately landing in historically Caribbean Lefferts Gardens, where beef patties and banana pudding fueled my freelance work and late-night adventures with friends.

When I became pregnant with Maya in my early 30s and my husband, John, received a job offer in the Bay Area, we stuffed our tortoiseshell cat into a black bag, tucked her under the airplane seat, and flew west. I was hesitant to leave my New York life behind, yet I was also weary of lugging 25-pound bags of cat litter from Atlantic Center to our apartment. John promised that Oakland would resemble Brooklyn, perhaps with a bit more ease, and he was right in many respects.

As fate would have it, it wasn't Oakland that felt most unfamiliar, but my new identity as a mother. It was a defining before-and-after moment. Before motherhood, I was one person—someone living in New York, without a car or even a car seat. My time was mostly mine, even if I didn't fully realize it then. I would get tired, drained, and overwhelmed, but recovery was always just a breath away.

And then I had Maya, transforming me into someone new. As Clare Vaye Watkins poignantly expresses in her profound novel about early motherhood, I Love You But I’ve Chosen Darkness: 'There was so much about these thresholds that was impossible to describe from the other side... I found it to be a demolition, a stripping down to the basics.'

I relocated to the West Coast and underwent a complete transformation. Each day, month, and year, I rebuilt myself beneath the eucalyptus trees, stepping over the shards of broken car windows. I still knew how to report a story and uncover a fabulous vintage shirt at any Goodwill. However, I also became someone who could pick a ripe loquat from the neighbor’s tree and care for a baby. My time was often only mine in fleeting moments, my exhaustion felt profound. My main focus shifted from personal ambition to the joy of my children—and the resentment of how caring for them altered the life I had carefully constructed.

As my daughter matured, I realized I wanted her to know all facets of me. Not just the maternal side, but also the adventurous, inquisitive, subway-riding woman who thrived in the city. But can you ever truly return to the past? Can a child ever fully grasp the whole life of her mother?

As Maya’s ninth birthday drew near, I felt it was time for us to embark on a one-on-one trip together.

Why?

First and foremost, because I enjoy her company now. I relish our time together, the comfortable silence we share. I appreciate the things we enjoy together—creating art, reading Kate DiCamillo novels, watching nature documentaries. I even embrace our differences—she’s more detail-oriented than I am, aware of what she wants and how to get it, almost instinctively. I felt a strong urge for an adventure outside our 1,200-square-foot home, especially since we’d mostly navigated the pandemic together—John worked outside while her little sister attended preschool most days.

When I asked her where she wanted to go, she immediately replied: New York.

I allowed Maya to take full control of the itinerary, which she effortlessly crafted—thanks to her natural discernment and a life rich with cultural references from New York City, including Knuffle Bunny books, Home Alone II, and perhaps a few too many stories from my vibrant twenties. She clearly knew what she wanted to focus on: the Met, Mood (the fabric store she discovered on Project Runway), a Broadway show, and the Statue of Liberty. Plus, she was eager to eat pizza—lots of it. It sounded perfect to me.

And it absolutely was. When we entered her first Broadway theater, my introverted, confident girl declared, 'I would love to perform for this many people someday.'

We were captivated by the costumes, choreography, and fresh take on Some Like It Hot. When the audience erupted in a roaring standing ovation for J. Harrison Ghee’s incredible song celebrating gender fluidity, I found myself in tears while Maya only rolled her eyes a little.

Mood was appropriately daunting for two gals unfamiliar with sewing, yet we navigated the tight aisles, marveling at the array of textures and patterns. Eventually, we summoned the courage to purchase a bit of fabric and some zippers. Maya was equally fascinated by the crowd—FIT students in towering shoes and older women in hijabs chatting by the silks.

I guided her towards the Staten Island Ferry for a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty, hoping to avoid a full day in a tourist trap. The wind whipped around us as she attempted to capture Lady Liberty with her Polaroid camera. Though she was merely a tiny figure on the water, Maya seemed unfazed, finding pure joy in the adventure itself.

My wonderful friend, Anna, a single woman without children, welcomed us into her Cobble Hill apartment in Brooklyn. As I observed Maya soaking in Anna’s stunning space and her vibrant existence, I realized she was absorbing a profound lesson about the diverse ways to shape a life. Anna’s walls are adorned with art from her travels—pieces from India (where her parents are from), a Japanese woodblock print, and a striking photograph by French artist JR. The three of us donned mud masks, snuggled together, and watched a movie, the city lights twinkling through Anna’s floor-to-ceiling corner windows.

I intentionally focused this trip on Maya, not myself, but I did share a glimpse of my personal journey. I pointed out the New York Public Library, where I penned my first book in the Rose Reading Room before it had Wi-Fi. I took her to the Strand, where I bought her a graphic novel. We devoured a pizza slice as large as her torso at Koronet’s, my go-to place for a late-night slice after outings with friends.

It’s true what they say: You can never truly return. I’ll never be 27 again, rushing to a bar to meet friends, unaware of the weight of being responsible for another person's life. Yet, while in New York with this little person I’ve nurtured, I came to understand that you can be a mother and still feel complete.

Maya and I squeeze together on the orange plastic seats of the 2 train. After years of pandemic-induced claustrophobia, I observe the strangers around us. She reaches for one of my earbuds and plugs it into her left ear, where a tiny shark tooth earring hangs. My right ear is already filled with the sounds from our special trip playlist. As Jay-Z’s “Empire State of Mind” begins to play, I lean against her and squeeze her hand. She looks up and flashes a big smile. She sees me.

How to explore NYC with a child

Planning a trip to NYC with your child? Check out these tips.

Let them take the lead on the itinerary.

If they’re not very familiar with NYC, that’s perfectly fine. Jot down various experiences on sticky notes and let them organize them on a large board. You can assist them in setting realistic expectations about what can be accomplished in a single day.

Make transportation a math activity

Maya and I purchased a weeklong subway pass and documented every ride in a small notebook. By the end of the week, we assessed if the pass was worth it. The conclusion? Almost—but we agreed that the people-watching experience was invaluable.

When it comes to getting around, take the bus! It’s an excellent way to see more of the city when you or your child need a break from walking.

Hand your child a Polaroid camera to capture memories.

While you could give them your smartphone, nothing compares to the tangible experience of a Polaroid that delivers instant, artistic photos. We also took a notebook, pens, and tape to create our scrapbook as we went—a fun activity for those inevitable quiet moments.

Let your child guide you through the museum.

Maya and I explored only a fraction of the Met, but the rooms we did visit came alive as she spun tales, and we moved at her rhythm. Engage your child with questions instead of lecturing them. Also, don’t overlook some of the smaller museums like El Museo del Barrio, the Tenement Museum, or the New York Transit Museum, based on your child’s age and interests.

Don’t just settle for traditional attractions; seek out recommendations and check for local events.

While we were in NYC, one of my followers informed me about a Renegade Art Fair happening that weekend, so we decided to go and had an amazing time.

Don’t shy away from popular tourist destinations simply because you think they’re cliché.

Your child deserves to experience the magic of the Big Apple with fresh, wide-eyed wonder. Times Square was overwhelming for me, but seeing Maya absorb it all for the first time was a joy. She was eager to buy a snow globe, and I thought, why not? There’s no joy in imposing your own ideas of sophistication on your children—they’ll have plenty of time to grow up and be jaded later.