Brooklyn, I love you.

I can't believe it's already been a year.

Last March, I moved to Brooklyn: two suitcases in hand, and a dream in my head. One year later, I'm working at an elementary school as an after-school counselor teaching peace education and social responsibility to fourth graders, music is the central part of my life, dancing is my physical outlet, and I patiently await my City Year in August. It's been a long, confusing, exciting, dynamic, and sometimes even lonely, whirlwind of a journey, but I have never regretted moving here, and I love it more and more every day.

I remember, when I first moved to Brooklyn, I was constantly afraid of getting mugged, raped, or kidnapped, I thought making friends was going to be a breeze, and I was confident I'd land a real job fairly quickly. I was only right about one of those things: landing my first big-girl job. I started working at Allison & Partners, a corporate public relations firm, after one month of living in New York. I knew the corporate world wasn't for me, but I was willing to give it a shot since I needed a job.

In all honesty, I can see how people get sucked into the corporate lifestyle. It was definitely comforting to have a steady income, to have set hours (whether they were followed or not), and to do the same things every day, over and over again. But I wasn't passionate about my work at all and that was eating away at me.

I looked for outlets outside of work to compensate for the fact that I felt my soul was being sucked out of my body. I took African, Caribbean, and hip-hop dance classes, I joined a choir, and I went to the gym every day. But being happy outside of work wasn't sufficient. I wanted my work to actually do something good for the world. I wanted my work to mean something. I'm only 23, and I wasn't willing to squander any more time. I started thinking of a way out. I started thinking back to when I used to work for a cause I was passionate about: poverty in Honduras.

When I lead trips in Honduras, the work is difficult, the days are unpredictable, the hours are long, the heat is draining, and being a leader, tour guide, counselor, motivator, entertainer, and caretaker for 25 college students is not an easy feat. But at the end of the day, I love the kids, I love the community, I love the country, I love the volunteers, and I love the cause. On these trips, my energy is endless and I am constantly shitting rainbows because: 1) I'm in Honduras, 2) I'm ridiculously proud of my volunteers' collective ability to haul ass, and 3) I adore all the village members, from the women who cook for us, the men who work next to us, and the kids who bring smiles to our faces.

After eight months of reminiscing about my rainbow-shitting days, I decided to take a leap of faith, set aside my fears, and go with my gut. I said, "Adios!" to Corporate America right before Thanksgiving, applied to City Year, applied to a million nonprofit and education jobs, and threw up a prayer.

In December, I got accepted into City Year and I landed a job as an after-school counselor at a dual-language school in Sunset Park, Brooklyn. And on New Year's Eve, my dream came true.

Six months after moving to Brooklyn, I joined a local choir called the Brooklyn Community Chorus. I contacted the choir two months into the semester, but they let me join, anyway. At my first rehearsal, I discovered that there was a solo for "Joyful, Joyful," the song Lauryn Hill sings in Sister Act 2. I immediately jumped at the opportunity, auditioned, and the creative director of the choir, Ethan, was auditioning me. I guess we both just found each other at the right time because while I was looking for any and every singing opportunity, he was looking for a singer for a New Year's Eve performance he was organizing. On New Year's Eve, I lived out one of my dreams of singing on stage in front of thousands of people, and it was one of the most surreal, exhilarating experiences of my life. I've never felt so free and so myself in my life. It felt so right to be on stage, behind a microphone, pumping up thousands of people for one of the most exciting times of the year. Ethan is truly my brother from another mother, and his family is my home away from home.

Literally three hours after performing on stage on New Year's Eve, I hopped on a plane to lead service trips in Honduras. I was there for two weeks, met some of the most beautiful souls, reconnected with my Honduran family, reunited with past volunteers, student leaders, and staff, regained some perspective, and got a little sun. SHH is an organization that will always be a part of me, and I, always a part of it. It's the reason I'm where I am today, both figuratively and literally. I owe it to SHH and all the beautiful people I met in Honduras for helping me find myself again.

Shortly after my return from Honduras, Kim Jong Il passed away. I decided to google nonprofits that aid North Korea during this time of political change, and an organization called LiNK (Liberty in North Korea) came up in my search. I discovered that the organization had created a documentary called The People's Crisis and was looking for people all over the nation to host screenings. I decided to reach out and share my interest in hosting a screening in Brooklyn, which I ended up doing on March 23, 2011 at my apartment. I invited my friends, people from work, and people from my choir to watch the documentary and learn about the crisis in North Korea.

Before I discovered LiNK, I felt helpless. I knew the atrocities that were taking place in North Korea, but because the country is so isolated from the rest of the world and the government has total control over its people, I didn't think there was anything I could possibly do to change the lives of the North Korean people. Discovering LiNK made me realize that nothing is ever impossible. LiNK made me realize that if there's a will, there's always a way.

I met three amazing individuals through LiNK: Sarah, Wyatt, and D. They call themselves the Northeast Nomads. They decided that knowing about the humanitarian crisis in North Korea and doing nothing about it was not an option. They dedicated six months of their lives to the cause, and hit the road. They travel to colleges, high schools, and religious institutions, all around the northeast region, showing The People's Crisis. They inform people about the crisis in North Korea and rally them together to do something about it. They live out of a van, sleep in a sleeping bag, carry around a suitcase, all in the name of social justice for the North Korean people. Not only are they doing fantastic things, they are fantastic people. They were in Brooklyn with me for literally less than ten hours and I hauled my ass all the way up to Massachusetts to see them last weekend. They rock my world.

And last but definitely not least, my life hasn't been the same since I met my rockstar roommate, Jenny. She moved into our apartment in January, and has just brought so much light and life into this apartment and into my life. Never would I have thought that a Craigslist roommate could turn out so great, but damn, I totally lucked out! She gave our apartment the love it needed and now, I am totally in love with my pad. We hit the town, get hit on by creeps, come home, and stuff our faces with lime chips and salsa, carrots and hummus, eggs and pasta. She's a white girl from North Dakota who knows all the words to "Shoop" and "Big Pimpin'." She does a mean rendition of "Single Ladies." She's the best storyteller. And whenever I hear "Moves Like Jagger," I will piss my pants at the memory of a dead-sober black man with a purple backpack screaming, "Here come the refrain! Here come the refrain!" on the train. Jenny: you da shit.

It's been one hell of a year. I can only hope that the years to come will be half as exciting, amazing, and unpredictable as my first.

Brooklyn, I love you.

Chi