When I bought my studio apartment in Greenwich Village in 2005, it was meant to be a “starter” apartment. I got a 5-year ARM and figured I’d move on the greener – or at least spacier – pastures long before that term expired.

I was wrong.

Three boyfriends, one (now ex) husband, two dogs and eight years later, I moved across the country – but was still holding on to my little piece of downtown Manhattan.

When I relocated to Florida in 2007 to be with my then soon-to-be husband, I frequently made the trip up the coast. The 3-hour flight was cake and I was there about every month for a week. My job had offices in both NYC and Boca so it was no big deal. I had dinner with my best friend more often than if I actually stayed on the island. I barely felt like I had left.

And when that marriage ended and I moved back north, I seamlessly rehabitated my old abode.

After some major redecorating (an ex was architecturally minded and had custom built everything but now it felt run-down an dated), a fresh paint job and new furniture (thanks, IKEA!) it should have felt like a brand new apartment.

But it didn’t.

Energetically, there was too much left over in that 375-square foot place: the ghosts of boyfriends past, stress from bygone jobs and, well, it was just too small.

Suddenly, I realized I hated it and wanted out – a West Village one-bedroom was calling my name, loudly – but it was just too cheap to give up. Apartment prices in 2005 were much lower, to say the least.

I tried rearranging and sage-ing and even went shopping on 23rd Street for Murphy beds. I was desperate.

After I moved to Las Vegas last September, the NYC apartment was being rented by a friend and I stopped thinking about it for a while. But once I started reading all of the NY Times’ articles about the shortage of apartments for sale, I realized: IT WAS TIME.

I listed the place and immediately got nervous. Was this the right move? Would I ever be able to buy a place again? Did it matter? What if I moved back to NYC and needed a place to live? And, most importantly: what if no one bought it?

Naturally, being as it was a really cute, well-priced studio in NYC, my fears were unfounded and the apartment was snapped up pretty quickly. I went into contract and then waited and waited and waited for a closing date.

Then the fear really took over. If I didn’t own an apartment in NYC any more, I wasn’t really a New Yorker. Or so I thought. So much of my identity revolved around my love for the City, I realized. Without any bricks and mortar to show for it, I suddenly felt like a fake, a poser.

But I would always be a New Yorker, even if I had to stay in a hotel or couldn’t commiserate about my nosy neighbors and sky-high maintenance fees. It was a part of me.

Two weeks ago, I finally officially sold my “starter” apartment. It was tough to let go but the check I got made it marginally easier to handle.

And you know what? It was the right thing to do. I was holding onto the past when it was really just time to move on.