Why I Traded A Perfect Life In Australia For New York City: It's Like A Toxic Boyfriend I Can’t Quit

It's Been A Hell Of A Ride.

And Just Like That…

It’s been 12 years since I dragged my husband, two young sons (then 9 and 2), and our Bengal cat, Lola, to New York, “for a year” for an “adventure.”

It’s been a hell of a ride.

Growing up on a steady diet of Sex and the City, Friends, and JFK Jr. and Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy obsession (the first time around) fueled my lust to live out my New York dream.

Not that I moved here chasing some cringey Carrie fantasy—I’m not that lame. But like Carrie Bradshaw, I’ve written for Vogue—in fact, I started my career at Vogue Australia. Uprooting our lives and leaving everything we knew and everyone we loved was also not part of some strategic career move, despite the fact that NYC is the epicenter of glossy fashion magazines.

We arrived jobless.

Nor was it because I didn’t love my easy, beachy life in Australia. I mean, we lived in a beautiful 1890s cottage house on a tree-lined street just ten minutes from Sydney’s iconic Bondi Beach.

But they don’t call it “Down Under” for nothing.

Australia is a beautiful, sun-drenched paradise overflowing with good-looking people, incredible food, and a lifestyle to die for. But it’s also at the bottom of the world. Truth be told, there are two types of Aussies. Those who are utterly content living in a bubble in the “Lucky Country” (I salute them) and the rest of us who knew instinctively from a young age that there was a “big bad world” out there—and were desperate to be part of it.

I was born in a country town called Wagga Wagga (an Aboriginal name meaning “land of many crows”). Population: 50,000.

Let’s just say, it’s a long way from Wagga to the West Village.

My first attempt at becoming a global citizen happened in 1999, when, in our late twenties, my husband and I chased the Y2K bug to London. I wanted to go to New York. But back then, moving to “America” wasn’t “the done thing”—visas were impossible, and Aussies notoriously took the well-traveled path back to the “mothership” to work in London, travel Europe, and, in our case, spend every possible weekend in Spain.

When the London era ended in late 2003, we headed home and spent the next decade back in Sydney, buying a home, establishing our careers, hosting more drunken backyard BBQs than I care to remember, and having babies. But I couldn’t scratch the itch.

I was not going to die without resolving my unrequited love affair with New York City.

There’s a lot of talk right now about “geographic longing”—the idea that many of us are living in the “wrong” country. There might be something in that, but trust me, I was never not going to get off the island. I also wanted my kids to experience life—and a culture—beyond those blissful beaches.

People thought I was insane.

One horrified mum even asked me, “But what about the lifestyle?” What about it? New York City has a lifestyle on steroids. Not better, just different. It’s also a way of life. And it gets in your blood.

It was during a slow January (Australia’s August, if you like), 15 years ago now, that I finally pulled the trigger on the plan. While everyone else was at the beach, I was at my desk at The Sydney Morning Herald applying for the Green Card lottery.

When I learned we’d actually won, I was two things:
1. Ecstatic.
2. Pregnant.

It was February 2014 when we arrived, straight off the beach, in the middle of an Arctic vortex. Not exactly a soft landing. Still, we’d soaked up every last drop of the Aussie summer, and I reconciled that my oldest was still young enough and my baby (still in diapers and mad about his milk) was now old enough. We told ourselves—and the kids—we’d try our luck in “the concrete jungle where dreams are made of” for a year, for that adventure.

They say you can spot new Aussies in New York as they’re wearing their ski gear. No truer words have ever been spoken. There was nothing that could have prepared us for “snowmaggedon”, and no Aussie clothes that would ever translate.

My boys had barely worn long pants in their lives, let alone a coat. So when they refused to wear them outside—mostly Javier—I let them walk out onto the street in their shorts and a singlet (wifebeater). You’ve never seen a two-year-old beg for “glugs” (gloves) and a “funny hat” (beanie) faster in his life. Snow angels in the streets followed.

It’s funny when you live in New York, the first thing most people usually ask is, “Do you love it?” I mean, sure, Cheryl, it’s New York, of course I love it.

But this is also my life, not the set of Sex and the City, sadly. I’m a mum/mom who does (or did) the school run, spent my weekends on the soccer and baseball field (I miss those days), buys the groceries, does the washing (they call it laundry here), and can stay in and binge-watch a Netflix series like nobody’s business.

I’d be lying, of course, if I didn’t say there hadn’t been incredible highs and “New York pinch me” moments (read on). Nor would I be telling the truth if I didn’t admit the buzz of running into Sarah Jessica Parker filming ‘And Just Like That’ on Perry Street after dinner one night, while with my friend Cynthia, and SJP yelling, “Look, there’s Cynthia Rowley!” (we stopped and chatted)—hasn’t been accompanied by some majorly low blows.

Like the astronomical cost of rent for a two-bed apartment. The implosion of my marriage one Saturday morning and the horror of becoming a single mum forced to navigate this brutal life transition alone on the other side of the world. Having to move 10 times in 12 years and not having two cents to my name at times (those two are inexplicably linked). My oldest growing up and moving back home (I miss you, Tiago). The heartache of missing out on so many milestones and precious times with the Rat Pack, my dearest friends, mum, sisters, cousins, nieces, and nephews. Oh, and the weather (I’m a beach girl at heart, I hate the cold).

Would I change it?
Not for a New York minute.

The New York Moments That Made It All Worth It

Raising my young kids in Tribeca. Or TriBurbia, as I call it—a beautiful, quiet, cobblestoned neighborhood in lower Manhattan with a community that felt immediately like home (it was also JFK Jr. and CBK’s home)

Having friends the first week, thanks to the family vibe at P.S. 150, the postage-stamp-sized elementary school Tiago and, later, Javier attended. Hi JJ, Johnny, Laura, Andrew, and my beloved Gungors (and Britney—where are you?).

My shy, terrified 9-year-old being thrown into an American classroom (no uniforms; they wore Ugg boots and looked like a Mötley Crüe) in 3rd grade and later telling me his first day was “awesome-icated.” Thank you, Reefy. And Martina.

Both boys literally growing up in Washington Market Park (aka the red park), where we splashed in summer, made snowmen in winter, and cemented friendships (me and them).

Javier’s years at Reade Street Prep, another beautiful, loving community. It was an immersion program, mornings in English and afternoons in Mandarin. We wanted him to be in the Spanish class (his dad’s Chilean, hello), but watching him speak in Chinese to Olivia when they could barely even speak was something else.

Our first summer spent on Shelter Island (love you Burdens) and those laidback days and nights at Martina and Rach’s lake house upstate.

Tiago getting accepted into The Clinton School for middle school and high school (the NYC school system is no joke), paving the way for Javier to do the same. A gift that also gave me the Lit Squad.

Forming the Lit Squad in March 2020, when COVID shut down my birthday plans, and I was forced to have a cocktail party over Zoom (not easy when you exude main character energy). Thanks for the friendship, laughs, and support when I struggled, Sarah, Amanda, Anna, Lauren, Cynthia, and Nicole. And for our brand name, Max. You are all LIT.

Living in New York during the pandemic and spending the summers of 2020 and 2021 having socially distanced park picnics and street parties on Duane Street as we rang cowbells and banged on saucepans at 7 p.m. every night to honor the first responders.

Peaking in my career at Harper’s Bazaar with my own office and a killer view overlooking Columbus Circle. It’s been all downhill from there.

Showing my mum, stepfather Gerry, and my friends from Aus who visited around ‘my’ New York. Times Square, my ass.

Raising two New York rats (their words, not mine) who can navigate a subway at all hours, grew up doing god knows what in Central Park, and who have been forever shaped by the grit, diversity, actual rats, and even the crackheads that make up NYC’s backdrop. All of which runs deep in their DNA.

Immersing ourselves in sweet American traditions like the 4th of July, Thanksgiving, the odd summers in the Hamptons, potlucks, and 5th, 8th, and (in Tiago’s case) 12th grade graduation—complete with a prom of the century.

Just walking the streets (and never having to drive a car) of your neighborhood, taking in the smells (dog pee, weed, and optimism), the brownstones, the scenery, and feeling like you belong in a city where you are totally anonymous.

Dancing in Central Park (remember this, Tayla?) at a late summer festival to Jay-Z, before Beyoncé made a surprise drop in. And years later, rocking out to Aussie DJ Fisher in the same park with my Tiago. I could barely walk for days.

New York or Nowhere, Baby.