I don’t have a big social circle. Most days, it’s just me moving through the world with my Bluetooth keyboard, my tablet, and my iPhone for a few snapshots — the holy trinity of introverted urban survival. For a long time, I thought that meant I didn’t have many relationships. But it turns out I do. They’re just not with people. They’re with cities, rituals, and the places that tolerate me wandering around like a Victorian ghost with better tech.
Baltimore is the grounding relationship in my life, the one that steadies me. A year ago, when everything in me was unraveling, the city responded with a kind of care I didn’t know managed care was capable of. Within hours, I had a social worker, a doctor, a therapist — a whole team assembling around me like I’d accidentally hit the “summon party members” button in a video game. It felt like Baltimore itself put a hand on my back and said, I’ve got you. I’m still not over it.
But Baltimore holds me in quieter ways too. It’s a blue‑collar city, which means it never really sleeps. Shift workers keep the grocery stores lively at hours when other cities are busy pretending they don’t have problems. There’s no single lunch rush — everyone’s on their own schedule, which is perfect for someone like me, who considers “3:17 p.m.” a perfectly reasonable time to buy yogurt. I can slip into a Safeway at 10 p.m. or 6 a.m. and feel like I’m part of the city’s pulse, not an intruder.
When I need comfort, I go to the National Aquarium. I’ll grab something simple to eat and then find a quiet corner where the tanks glow in blues and greens. Writing while watching jellyfish drift past is the closest I’ve come to meditation. The rays glide by like they’re late for a meeting they don’t care about. The whole place is soothing in a way that makes me think I was maybe meant to be a sea creature, but one with a tablet and strong opinions about sandwiches.
DC, on the other hand, is the aspirational relationship — the one that pulls me forward. Every time I step off the Metro, I feel myself straighten a little, like the city expects me to behave. DC is the friend who says, I have so much to show you. Let’s go to the museum. It’s very enthusiastic about my potential, which is flattering, if occasionally exhausting.
My favorite place there isn’t a monument or a gallery but the bookstore inside the International Spy Museum. It’s quiet in a way that feels intentional, like everyone is pretending they’re on a covert mission to read in peace. I’ll tuck myself between the shelves, open my tablet, and write while tourists drift past reading about codebreaking and covert operations. Being surrounded by stories of hidden worlds sharpens my own inner world. DC is the relationship that hands me a metaphorical trench coat and says, Go be interesting.
And then there’s solitude — the relationship that knows me best. I move through the world as an observer, not a participant, and it feels natural. With my keyboard and tablet in my bag, I can set up anywhere: a bench at the Inner Harbor, a corner table at Union Market, a quiet seat on the MARC train. My iPhone becomes a way of noticing — a mural, a reflection, a moment of light on the water. Solitude doesn’t ask me to perform. It just says, Take your time. We’re not in a race. (Which is good, because I would absolutely lose.)
Some people are shaped by their communities. I’m shaped by my cities. Baltimore teaches me comfort and resilience. DC teaches me curiosity and motion. Solitude teaches me honesty and presence. Together, they form the constellation I move through — a life that makes sense even without a crowd, a life where the relationships that matter most aren’t people at all, but the places that hold me, challenge me, and walk beside me as I become myself.
Scored by Copilot, Conducted by Leslie Lanagan
Stories That Are All True 