love notes from the levee ⚓️

i never knew a city could hold you close like a long lost relative until i stepped onto the rich new orleans soil. i remember it like yesterday—february 15, 2020—when my mom threw me and my son (who was 4 at the time) a surprise black and gold going away party. the next day me and my little family of 3 at the time would ride to my new home of new orleans from houston.

i thought i knew what new orleans was: second line parades, smoky jazz clubs, beignets dusted with hopes and dreams, endless festivals. but as we pulled up to our West Bank duplex, i realized my imagination barely scratched the surface.

then covid hit, and to a screeching halt came our party plans, the street festivals, even the simple parade of carnival colors. at first, i mourned the absence of beads and brass bands. but in that stillness—we found something richer.

we turned every cracked sidewalk and vacant park into our own festival. we explored hidden pocket parks where the birds sang in hymns. we wandered past abandoned warehouses. every rusting swing set, every peeling pastel shotgun house, every hand painted mural became a testament to the city’s stubborn and resilient beauty.

not a day passes when i don’t crave the freedom of aimless drives—windows down, salt air mixing with exhaust, every street lined with souls carving out their own versions of home. in some blocks, mansions wore their quirks like badges of honor— in others, kids chased footballs past a barbecue pit heated by a stranger’s generosity.

can you find that magic anywhere? maybe. but it isn’t the same. it just… it isn’t the same.

i chose to see new orleans through the lens of “what’s right” instead of “what’s wrong,” and it changed me. it taught me that resilience tastes like gumbo and sounds like a trumpet’s cry at dawn.

today, i’m long overdue for another trip back. so on days like this, i let those memories wrap around me like a familiar song, counting down until i can feel its heartbeat again.