After 32 years of marriage and a messy divorce, I was feeling very alone. Living single in the same Westchester, NY suburb where I had been married for 20 years, my once-robust circle of female friends had made it clear that I was welcome to meet them for lunch but not during couples’ time.  My children were grown and living in Brooklyn. My work was now exclusively online. Not only was I alone, but I was also feeling desperately lonely.

I worried that my own continued isolation would exacerbate the depression that I had fought for much of my life. I didn’t feel as though the salvos recommended by experts, such as taking a class, getting a dog, or volunteering, would be enough to keep my blues at bay.

So, I moved to a high-rise building in New York City.

My ex-husband and I had lived in the city for a number of years in the early 1980s, when we were newly married. In those days, Manhattan scared me. The 1980s saw the highest crime totals in New York City’s history, and it was considered unsafe to travel on the subway, especially after dark and especially for a woman alone. The ‘80s predated smart phones and google maps, and I was terrified of finding myself lost and alone in a strange neighborhood with no way to summon help.

Thankfully, New York City is much safer today than it was in the 80s. Armed with my iPhone and Apple watch, I now felt totally comfortable being alone on the streets and on public transport.

My first antidote to social isolation turned out to be the elevator in my building. I commented on cute babies and sweet dogs, and either groused about the weather or sang the praises of the sunshine. I offered to help my neighbors carry their packages and dry cleaning. Sometimes I just smiled and wished people a good morning/afternoon/evening. The best conversation starter was to engage someone in a mutual complaint: “Can you believe how slow the elevators are today?”

There were endless possibilities for interaction in the laundry room. I’d ask for advice about fabric softener or complain about the people who never cleaned out the lint traps. Conversation never lagged…especially if I was generous in sharing my detergent pods.

I always enjoyed chats with our doormen and concierges when I was coming home or picking up my packages, but I most appreciated them the day I had minor surgery and arrived home groggy and in pain The doorman beckoned over my daughter, who had accompanied me from the hospital. “Tell your mom if she needs anything at all she should give us a call,” he said. Once she got me settled in, my daughter went out to buy food. But she had forgotten to take a key. I was lost in a deep post-anesthesia nap and didn’t hear the doorbell. Once alerted, the doorman ran up with a key and waited outside until he knew I was alright.

The neighbors to my left were a single father and his son, a bright young adult with autism who was non-verbal. I would run into them all over, whether they were in the gym, running in the street, outside doing errands or just in the hallway. I learned from a Facebook post that they were the subjects of Big Daddy Autism, a documentary about the inspiring relationship between Alex and his father and their quest to connect with the world around them. I was sad when they moved to a different floor to take advantage of pandemic pricing.

On my right was a family of four. When they moved in the two daughters were bouncy young children, but by the time I moved out ten years later in an attempt to lower my rent, they were lovely young women. The mother and I ran onto each other most often in the compactor room. She was my source when I wanted to know more about what was happening on our floor or in the building.

Perhaps the most colorful person on our floor was the older woman at the end of the hall who would faithfully do laps up-and-down the hallway for ten minutes at least three times a day. I looked forward to opening my door and spotting her in her running shoes. One day, out of the blue, she asked if I liked chips. Later, I found a bag of them hanging from my doorknob.

“I don’t eat chips,” she said when I thanked her. “But I didn’t want to let them go to waste.”

It goes without saying that the city offers a plethora of opportunities for companionship outside of my apartment building. I made my first real city friends in a walking group in Central Park. One week I found myself chatting with Michele, a divorced woman almost exactly my own age. The next Saturday she introduced me to two of her friends, also in our demographic. “We decided we liked you,” they later told me. It wasn’t long before we were exchanging emails and going on walks together, and buying discount tickets together to plays, concerts, museums, and other pursuits.

One day during a walk around the Central Park Reservoir, as I basked in the sunshine and enjoyed the breeze that gently tickled my face, I came to a realization: Not only wasn’t I depressed, but I was actually happy. I wasn’t afraid, and I wasn’t lonely. I loved my new city life.