Boston, Bookstores and College Nostalgia

2009 me, meet 2024 me!

Besties, I have a confession to make:

I was a theater kid in high school.

Not only that, I went to a conservatory for college in Boston and have a degree in musical theater. 

Not only THAT, but I acted professionally basically up until this past year. 

And when I was in college, I only had a handful of friends. 

I often say that my four years in Boston were simultaneously the best and worst years of my life. Being a quiet, reserved theater student in a sea of boisterous, outgoing performers was uh… jarring and overwhelming and really hard a lot of the time. I’ve been back to Boston twice since college and the first time was full of anxiety, but this last time? Something shifted. In a really good way.

I wrote this essay last fall—15 years after I graduated from college (omg). Lots of deep thoughts ahead. As always, tysm for reading. And shout out to the class of 2009! 

xx, Kristen

My heart aches as I glance over the towering shelves of books to see the tiny bookstore cafe packed with people, typing away on their laptops. The long, thin bar slopes all the way to the back, with rows of books separating patrons from the rest of the store. They sip glasses of red wine and mugs of steamed milk and espresso. The familiar aroma of fresh ink and crisp paper wafts through the air—the way only an indie bookstore can smell. I browse through the rows of never-ending books and stop at a small section of Boston-themed gifts, as well as some other very niche baseball caps. I smile and grab a hat that says “influencer” on it. 

“Should I get this?” I playfully ask my husband. I’m not being serious, of course, but the hat feels like an inside joke. I get mistaken for an influencer all the time, not because I have tons of followers on social media, but because I get PR packages and go on brand trips every once in a while. Perks of being a journalist. As I put the hat back on the shelf, I can’t help but feel like I’m straddling between two selves — my college self and my current self.

Little bb college Kristen and Kristen last week lol

A small sign by the stairs to the second floor catches my eye. Poetry open mic tonight, with an arrow pointing up. A tiny pang of creative longing shoots up my spine. We make our way upstairs to another section that’s separated by giant book shelves. Indistinct rows of little tables and chairs are sprinkled throughout this section of the bookstore with a makeshift stage at one end of the room. I see mostly students sitting and watching, while a poet speaks into the mic, reading from a small notebook. The poetry wasn’t particularly moving or extraordinary, but it didn’t matter. I’m no poet, but stumbling upon this scene, while simultaneously feeling nostalgic for my 20-year-old Conservatory student self sparked something inside me I hadn’t felt in a long time. 

Trident Booksellers and Cafe, Boston MA (my heart!)

I’ve gotten used to my cushy suburban life and routine. My husband and I live in a beautiful home in a beautiful neighborhood, with tree-lined streets and a shopping center within walking distance — complete with a Panera, Chipotle, Starbucks, a local bagel spot and a grocery store. Even though it’s completely suburban, being within walking distance feels a tiny bit like urban living. I had no idea how lucky I was to be a college student in Boston at the time, but being back in the city 15 years later showed me how magical the small creative bubble I was in really was. We were in town for a wedding, and we stayed in a one bedroom apartment on the fourth floor of a Newbury Street apartment. We walked to Trader Joe’s to pick up a few groceries for the weekend, I walked to get morning coffee, I walked down Comm Ave and cut through the Public Gardens to grab breakfast in Beacon Hill. And to my surprise, the independent bookstore I frequently shopped at when I was in college was open till 10pm on Sunday.

I remember I used to set up shop at a small, round cafe table by the window with plays, notebooks and pens in tow. Being a theater student meant reading plays, memorizing lines, learning music, and immersing myself in fictional worlds. I remember feeling really cool, like a real artist, sipping on coffee and peeking over my book to see people stroll down Newbury Street. That feeling came back with a vengeance as I stood as a 36-year-old in the same spot, except this time, my creative goals have changed. My confidence, my personal style and my overall demeanor have done a 360 turn. Because even though there are flashes of brilliance, happiness and success as I look back at my four years of college, my time was riddled with so much fear, self-doubt and unhealthy amounts of stress. I tried so hard to be perfect, all the time, and felt like a failure in so many ways. No one taught us how to take care of ourselves mentally, or physically for that matter,  and it wasn’t until I graduated that I realized I was walking around the streets of Boston with so much tension in my body that my chest hurt and I couldn’t take in a full breath. 

But the me who felt happy and at peace reading and working in a bookstore cafe makes my heart swell, and I can look back at my younger self and recognize that as the person I really am at my core — just a creative who wants to do good work. An introvert who longs for deep feelings, creative satisfaction, a good story, someone who thinks human beings are fascinating. Someone who wants to quietly explore the complexities of what it means to be a person on the planet, before outwardly sharing her findings with the world. That’s all I want to do, really. And I really, really wanted time to sit in that same window side table, with my laptop open, writing, sipping on coffee, and looking up to people-watch. It was late though, and we had an early flight to catch the very next day. So I left the bookstore, feeling a bit sad I didn’t have more time, but also feeling revived in some way, because I got a chance to meld a past version of myself with the current version, even if just for a moment. 

This trip to Boston made me miss city living — being able to walk everywhere, the unique stores and shops, the cobblestone streets. But more importantly, the creative pulse that quietly makes its way through the streets. I’m not really able to stumble onto a poetry open mic night in the suburbs of Maryland on a Sunday night. But the me who still gets a small thrill doing creative work in a coffee shop is still very much alive and well, except now I believe I’m even more open to creative magic. Perhaps it comes with age, but now I know how to engage with self-doubt and unkind thoughts. They haven’t gone away, unfortunately, and I’m not sure they ever will, but I’m much better at wrestling with them now.

And now, at 36, I think I have the confidence to say that I can be in my own creative renaissance if I want to be. I have the freedom to create as I choose, and not wait for anyone's permission. My 20-year-old self was desperate for approval and validation, but my 36-year-old self knows it has to come from myself first and foremost. And that everything will line up in the way that it’s supposed too. It doesn’t make the creative process any easier, but in a way, it makes it more fun. More manageable. More free. I don’t write because I need someone's stamp of approval, I write because it feels like I’m supposed to. I think my 20-year-old self would look at my 36-year-old self and smile. She’d probably be a little disappointed I’m not performing as much as I used to, but damn, this me is so cool. She’s still so creative and talented. The world is her oyster, she just has to have the courage to go for it. And luckily, at 36, she will. 

---