Too Much City, Too Much Me

I used to hate San Francisco. Not out of spite, but because it was always too much.

Too many cars cutting too close to the crosswalks. Too many near-misses that left my heart in my throat. Too many storefronts stacked on top of one another, competing for attention. The whole place seemed to vibrate at a frequency I could never tune myself to. I didn’t admire the buzz; I only felt the static.

Which is ironic—because I loved New York. Loved, loved, loved it. It felt like chaos was fuel, like possibility. The same excess that exhausted me here set me on fire there.

But today, as I rode the MUNI away from 4th and King’s Caltrain station, I caught myself in awe. The Bay Bridge rose like a cathedral of steel—impossibly high, impossibly confident, as if built for gods rather than ships. The train slipped underground, and the tunnel swallowed the light, and instead of dread, I felt exhilaration.

With humility, I’m realizing the city hasn’t changed—I have. My life before was marked by arrogance, so thick that it colored everything I said and did. Even when people tried to call me out, I bristled, convinced they were wrong. I carried offense like armor, too proud to admit what they saw in me.

I still have my moments. Arrogance doesn’t vanish overnight. It’s something I have to work on every single day. I need people around me who will call me out, not to shame me, but to help me stay aware of when I slip back into old habits. That insight is its own form of grace.

New York will always be my rush of adrenaline. San Francisco, though, has become a mirror: not proof of my growth, but a reminder that humility sometimes begins in the smallest acts—like letting the city carry me.