New York is one of my favorite places.
Babe and I have visited twice, and even after two trips, I still feel as though we have only touched the surface. That is the thing about New York. No matter how much you see, there is always another street to walk, another building to admire, another neighborhood to explore, and another experience waiting somewhere beyond the corner.
Our second trip was especially meaningful because Babe took me to New York for my Solar Return. It was more than a vacation. It was a celebration of another year of life in a city that makes me feel alive.
We also knew it might be our last visit for a while. There were still so many things I wanted to see, but one had stayed on my list longer than most: the Brooklyn Bridge.
I had seen it in photographs, movies, and videos. I had studied its unmistakable stone arches, the web of steel cables, and the view of the city surrounding it. I did not just want to look at it from a distance. I wanted to stand on it. I wanted to take my own photographs there and experience the architecture for myself.
By our last full day in the city, however, my body had other plans.
When the Desire Is There but the Body Says No
I love to walk and sightsee, especially when we travel. Walking lets me experience a destination in a way that riding past it cannot. I notice the buildings, the people, the storefronts, the sounds, and all the small details that give a city its personality.
But New York requires a lot from your feet, your hips, and your back.
We had already done so much walking during the trip that by our final day, my back was in severe pain. It was not a mild ache I could easily ignore. My back and hips felt as if they were on fire.
We were leaving the next day, and I was tired. The Brooklyn Bridge was about a 20-minute walk from where we were, and in that moment, 20 minutes sounded much longer than 20 minutes.
Babe looked at me and said, “Let’s go to the Brooklyn Bridge.”
I immediately thought about the walk. I thought about my back, the pain in my hips, and the fact that every step would have to be repeated on the way back.
“Let’s not,” I told her. “My back is hurting.”
She answered, “No, we’re going.”
She Remembered What I Wanted
If someone else had said it, those words might have sounded dismissive. But I knew Babe. I knew what she meant.
She was not pretending I was not in pain. She had watched me walk through New York for days. She knew exactly how much my body was hurting.
She also knew how many times I had talked about the Brooklyn Bridge.
She knew we were close. She knew we were leaving the next day. She knew this might be our last opportunity for a while. Most importantly, she knew that if we went back to the hotel without seeing it, the pain would eventually ease, but the disappointment might remain.
Sometimes love comforts you by saying, “You have done enough. Let’s go rest.”
And sometimes love looks at the thing you have dreamed about, looks at the distance still between you and it, and says, “No, we’re going.”
So we went.
Almost Two Miles of Fire
We walked almost two miles that night.
And when I tell you my back and hips were on fire, they were on fire.
There was nothing graceful or effortless about that walk. I was not floating through New York in some dreamy travel montage. I was tired. I was hurting. I was measuring the distance with my body, one step at a time.
But then we reached the Brooklyn Bridge.
At night, its massive stone towers rose into the darkness, illuminated against the sky. The Gothic arches were even more beautiful in person. Steel cables stretched in every direction, creating lines and patterns that photographs cannot fully capture. The wooden walkway carried people beneath the structure while the city glowed around us.
I stood there looking up at it and thought, “I’m glad that she made me walk.”
The architecture alone was worth seeing. The scale of it was breathtaking. Then there were the views, the lights, the movement of the city, and the feeling of finally standing inside a place I had imagined for so long.
I got my photographs.
But even more than that, I got the experience.
The pictures show me beneath the arches of the Brooklyn Bridge, surrounded by people and lights. What they cannot completely show is what it took for me to get there. They cannot show the fire in my back and hips. They cannot show the conversation that happened before the walk. They cannot show the woman beside the camera who remembered how badly I wanted that moment when pain was trying to make me forget.
That is what gives the photographs their meaning.
Getting There Was Only Half the Story
Of course, reaching the bridge meant we still had to walk back down.
That was another experience entirely.
By then, my body had given just about everything it had. I held on to Babe from behind all the way back down, using her for balance and support as we made our way together.
There is something tender about that memory when I think of it now. She pushed me to reach the experience, and then she helped carry me through the hardest part of leaving it.
That is partnership.
It is not always removing every difficult thing from someone’s path. Sometimes it is knowing which difficult things matter enough to face together. It is encouraging someone when fear, fatigue, or pain speaks first. Then, when the journey becomes heavier than expected, it is letting them hold on to you until they make it back.
The Memories We Make Room For
Travel does not always unfold under perfect conditions. Bodies get tired. Plans change. Weather refuses to cooperate. The thing you were most excited to do may land on the day when you have the least energy left.
That does not mean we should ignore our limits. Rest is important, and pain deserves to be taken seriously. There are times when turning back is the wisest and most loving decision.
But there are also rare moments when the opportunity, the timing, and the meaning of an experience ask us to make an honest choice: Is this something I truly need to release, or is this something I will be grateful I found a way to do?
That night, Babe knew my answer before I could get past the pain long enough to hear it.
She did not make me walk because the Brooklyn Bridge was another attraction to check off a list. She made me walk because she knew me. She knew New York mattered to me. She knew that bridge mattered to me. She knew I wanted the photographs, but also that I wanted to stand there, look up, and say that I had finally seen it with my own eyes.
She made sure pain did not make the decision for me.
Now, when I think about our second trip to New York, I remember the places we went and everything we did. But this memory sits differently.
I remember the bridge glowing against the night sky. I remember the arches and cables towering above me. I remember the view. I remember my back and hips burning. I remember holding on to Babe as we walked back down.
And I remember being deeply grateful that someone loved me enough to remember what I wanted, even when I was too tired and hurting to pursue it for myself.
I am glad she made me walk.
Because the pain from that night eventually passed.
The memory never will.
Has someone who loves you ever encouraged you to do something difficult because they knew how much the experience would mean to you?