New York City has felt magical to me since the first moment I took a cab from JFK and crossed into Manhattan, watching the skyline ease into view. Somewhere in that gentle unfolding, the city’s magic stole my heart. This spring, the city revealed another of its magical spectacles: Central Park’s cherry blossoms on the cusp of peak bloom.

I’ve walked past the main branch of the New York Public Library more times than I can count, never stepping inside. I’ve crossed its corner on Fifth Avenue and lingered in Bryant Park next door, unaware that so many of the library’s books sit stacked quietly beneath the lawn. This April, I finally walked up the steps and went in. What I found wasn’t just a beautiful building; it was an architectural landmark with a deep history, an intriguing story, and a deliberate statement

Some places announce themselves with skyline and noise. Cumberland Island begins with a whispering tunnel of live oaks that makes you feel like you’ve stepped off the map. A couple of hours before I ever meet that shaded road and wander under its immaculate branches, I catch the early morning ferry from St. Mary’s, the only way to the island, sharing the deck with just a handful of the 300 daily permitted visitors.

I’m starting the new year with a simple goal, to add more mileage to my weekly runs. Nothing too ambitious, just a small step on the ladder to the next level. But in scouting out my new route, I ended up finding something even better: a slice of beauty I’d somehow overlooked all my years in Decatur.