Ihave dedicated the majority of my life to pursuing ambitious endeavors. Some of these endeavors were short-term, like making my first item of clothing. Others were long-term, like deciding at age 12 to become a college athlete. One goal that I have always been passionate about, and that dates back further than any other is one that I was recently able to achieve: live in New York City and be a part of New York Fashion Week.

My fascination with New York City and the fashion industry began when I was very young and grew rapidly with age. I dedicated large amounts of time to researching the city and how I could most-efficiently become a part of it. When applying for internships this year, I applied to everything remotely related to the fashion industry. I scored a spot at a public relations agency, and in May I took off to my low-rent, mice-infested apartment in Harlem. I was ready to take on the city and never look back.

My work experience was better than I had ever imagined. I attended important events, met extremely influential people in the industry and played a pivotal role at the agency. However, as the summer passed, I felt a growing sense of something that I can only describe as “feeling off.” I finished the summer without being able to put a finger on exactly what was causing the feeling, but I did know that I felt an incredible sense of relief to be going home before returning to continue working during New York Fashion Week.

I do not remember a time I felt as truly happy as my few weeks at home. I laughed non-stop with my friends, got to drive my own car and felt more comforted than I ever have. Strangely enough, in those few weeks I did not want to be anywhere besides Searcy. The night before I left for fashion week, I spent an hour curled up on my couch, sad to already be leaving again.

I arrived for fashion week and, on the surface, the experience was everything I had dreamt of. I danced alongside Jessica Alba one night, brushed shoulders with Heidi Klum the next and met designers, actresses and editors. Underneath, however, I was miserable. I felt like I was in an endless sea of disconnected, surface level relationships. I watched people lie over and over, faking their own success and faking their abilities. People’s conversations with their “best friends” were nothing more than staring at phones, broken up intermittently by comments of how ugly someone’s dress was the night before. I suddenly realized how much I have taken my home roots for granted, how lucky I am to be grounded in a place where my best friends are easily mistaken for my sisters how being able to spend time with people does not rely on whether my photo might be used in an event recap by Harpers Bazaar.

Often, our perceptions of things we have not experienced are glamourized. We look at other people’s lives and experiences and believe that they are somehow better or more fulfilling than our own. It is a subconscious habit; we do not intentionally look to be unsettled with our own life, yet are always attempting to live vicariously through others’. It is an issue that everyone has and one that took me 21 years to discover in myself. As I sit on my couch and write this, I think about the time I have wasted looking jealously at other people’s lives when I have every reason to be undeniably, incredibly happy with my own.