Doin’ Great: Meet Catharine

It was one of those miserable “wintry mix” mornings—slush-coated sidewalks, sleet blowing sideways. The kind that makes you think you’ll Never. Get. This. Stroller. Moving. I was pushing my daughter, Alida, to nursery school in Downtown Brooklyn, and our stroller refused to chart a straight course. As we lurched and fishtailed forward, I narrated our journey in my best singsong voice, belting observations into the wind and pelting rain.

“Wow, Alida! Look at all this rain!”

“Oh my gosh! We just got stuck! But now, wee! Here we go again!”

I couldn’t see her beneath the stroller canopy. She was tucked into her 7 a.m. blanket, quiet. Presumably taking it all in.

Then Alida’s three-year-old voice popped up through the plastic rain cover: “You’re doin’ great, Mama!”

I never thought I’d end up “in the suburbs.” I grew up just over the state line from Westchester, in Fairfield County. Went to public school, played team sports (always JV, I was never a standout athlete), and made good friends. It was a happy life, but as I cruised through adolescence, I began to yearn for something deeper. A family ski trip to Colorado unlocked an enchantment with the West. I’ll never forget seeing the Rockies out the plane window for the first time. Like whipped cream! I thought.

For my high-school graduation gift, I asked my parents for a three-week backpacking trip in the High Sierras with Outward Bound. It was the photo of wildflowers in a high alpine meadow that had gotten me. When I saw that page in the course catalog, I needed to be there. I flew to Fresno and was surprised to learn that many of my peers’ parents had forced them into this adventure. They were equally surprised to learn that I had begged for it.

Halfway through college, I decided to take a year off. I’m still unpacking that part of my timeline, but looking back, I think it was my first real brush with existential terror. Until that point, my life had been following a relatively straight line: work hard in school, get into a good college, and get good grades. But now I was nearing the end of sophomore year, and I had to declare my major. Everyone seemed to know what they were destined to choose, but I had no idea.

I had always been interested in everything, never in one thing. This coincided with that pesky yearning for something deeper. Something more me. But what?

My dean encouraged me to take a blank sheet of paper and write down only things that felt good. I wish I could find that paper now. I don’t remember all the words I wrote down, but I remember a few: open space, my dog, mountains, the West. I researched ski towns and settled on one I had never seen, but that checked all the boxes: a walkable town, people my age, and mountains.

In October 2001, I flew to Durango, Colorado, and checked into a Budget Inn. While my friends back in college charged ahead with junior year, I waited tables and taught five-year-olds how to ski.

After college, I finally went back to finish, to my parents’ relief—I landed an internship at Outside magazine. And so began a ten-year track of fact-checking, editing, and writing my way up the mastheads of print magazines. By the time Alida was born in 2014, I was the editor-in-chief of an obscure timeshare magazine in New York. I can’t say becoming a mom automatically satisfied that yearning for something deeper. But it quelled it, in a way. Made me feel comfortable putting that old existential itch on hold for a bit while I indulged in this wondrous new being who could worm her tiny fists out of my best swaddling job.

My husband’s work was steady enough to support the three of us, and so I left magazines for good.

Not long after that zigzagging stroll to nursery school, we made the move so many young parents do, from Brooklyn to Westchester. It was 2018. Alida was nearly four, and our son, Joseph, was almost two. We were desperate for more space—you know you’ve gotta go when one of your kids sleeps in a pack-and-play in your bathroom—and overwhelmed by the thought of navigating New York City schools.

My husband had the same job, so we needed to be close enough for the commute. I was fully immersed in the hamster wheel of young parenthood: early wakeup, breakfast, nap, outing before lunch, lunch, nap (lunch cleanup during nap), outing, dinner, bath, bed. Repeat.

Neither of us had spent time in Larchmont, but our broker found a dream rental home in the village. On the first day, we plunked our chairs down in the sand at Manor Beach. My husband and I looked at each other: This was it. Alida and Joseph were puttering about with shovels and buckets; families were chattering all around us; the Sound was calm and blue.

Something about this town taps that same sense of wonder I discovered out West. Maybe it’s the water. The gentle clinking sound moored sailboats make on still summer mornings, when I’m walking our dog in Manor Park. The plates of ice that slosh onto shore during our brisk winter walks. Or maybe it’s the spring blooms. I swear, spring wasn’t like this in my childhood. I’ve never seen so many blooming trees in a single town! Like frosted cupcakes, I say to my kids.

Life looks a lot different now. My husband left that secure job and started his own business. We are three years in, and there have been electrifying ups and terrifying downs. Alida is finishing up her first year of middle school, and Joseph is in fourth grade.

And I’m starting to get that yearning thing again.

I’ve cleaned up my resume and updated my LinkedIn profile. The tricky thing is, I’m not the same person I was 20 or even 10 years ago. Lately, I feel like I’m pushing the zigzagging stroller, pursuing this line of work or that. I want a straight line, but I just can’t make one appear. This post is part of my search. It is my first published piece in a long, long time.

My daughter’s three-year-old voice floats back: You’re doin’ great, Mama.

I don’t know what will come next. But I do know that I’ve found my place. It’s not far away in the Rockies as I always dreamed it would be. And it’s strangely close to where I grew up. But I love it here in Westchester. I’m excited to explore it with you, as a parent and as someone who loves to get out and soak it in. My children are growing. My dog curls up next to me and rests her snout on my chest. My husband’s business is humming. I’m writing this post.

I’m doin’ great.