How to Be a Unicorn in Suburbia Pandemic Mama

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Growing up, I always felt like I was “different” than other kids.
I don’t know if it’s because I’m an immigrant (my family came to the U.S. just after my 8th birthday), have a unique background (half Russian, half Cuban), or if even back then I had a subconscious understanding that I’m queer and neurodivergent.
Or perhaps it’s just a little bit of childhood trauma due to being parented by a narcissist who early on called me “weird,” the “black sheep of the family,” and often wondered why I couldn’t be “normal.”
As a teen, I rebelled against those labels thrown on me by the people who supposedly love me unconditionally (hint: not a possibility for narcissists) by instead embracing my weirdness, the things that made me unique, and constantly saying that normal doesn’t exist.
I even came out as bisexual to my family and friends when I was 16 years old in 2002, something that my friends embraced and my parents got angry about and then pretty much ignored. (I wouldn’t know I’m neurodivergent until age 35.)
Basically, all the positive things I said about the things that made me “different” fell on deaf ears at home, but I embraced them nonetheless. As soon as I could, I escaped my hometown of southwest Florida to go to college in New York City—and I found my people and myself there.
Being different was a strength there, and finding community with other Latinx people, with other queer people, with other different people was easy. It’s where I felt most at home and still do. But life circumstances took me out of the city that I’ll always call home after 12 happy years, and it’s now been eight years since I truly felt like I belonged where I lived.
Leaving New York was the right decision but one that still pains me—especially because living in another big city isn’t an option either. For a while, I lived in my suburb-without-an-urban-area-nearby hometown in Florida—where I met and fell in love with my husband and had our child—and now live outside of Denver. Close enough that it’s not difficult to visit but far enough that going to the city needs to be planned out and, well, I kinda need a good reason to do.
“I’m stuck in the burbs” is something I’ve often said to my closest friends, most of whom still live in NYC. Or “I’m in suburban hell” when I’m having a particularly frustrating day feeling not quite like myself.
My feelings about leaving New York are still complicated and there are still many things I grieve about my life there—many of which involve the diverse communities I was a part of while living there. Whether it was singing karaoke at Marie’s Crisis while spotting Danny Strong joining in nearby or attempting to try every single burger at Burger Bash during NYC Wine & Food Festival back when it was hosted by Bobby Flay or taking the N train through three boroughs to visit Flushing Chinatown and my favorite panaderia in Sunset Park all in one day, there is just something about the city that I haven’t found anywhere else.
And as I recently realized in therapy, NYC was probably a spectacular place to live in as someone with undiagnosed Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder (ADHD).
There are a million things I can think of off the top of my head that made my life in my 20s pretty perfect for my ADHD brain—and almost all of those things are not possible in my life today. I don’t regret where my life has taken me or the way my chosen family changed over the years, but I still miss the things that made me feel the most “me”