That's what I would tell myself, and others, every time the conversation about moving to California came up… “Maybe in a year or two.”
California won my heart at age 17, which was strange because I had never been there. However, there was this very strong and instinctual pull to the Golden State. Maybe it was because my naïve-not-entirely-developed teenage mind wanted to runaway to a place that had progressive marijuana laws. Probably. But whatever truly drew me in got me out there about a year later… and then again 2 years later… and then again 3 months after that. Each time I went I fell more in love with everything the west coast had to offer. I always pictured myself living there. But then again, so did everyone else… right? Every time I boarded the plane to go home I could feel my heart ACHING to put plans in place to move out west. I could hear that same voice from my teenage years saying “Yes girl yes do this NOW.” And it all truly felt possible. But once I returned home, reality sunk in deep to my bones. I became doubtful of a dream that seemed commonplace and perhaps not so possible. I put California on the shelf and each time I did I told myself, “maybe in a year or two.”
Things were a little different on my last trip to the west. I was 23, making respectable money and trying on independency. I had booked a 10-day solo trip to the west in the dead of winter to help fight off my seasonal depression. I got out there, checked out San Diego for the first time, and that's when I felt and heard the pull again, but this time stronger and louder than ever. San Diego was my place. I knew it. My heart knew it. So I got back to east coast living and was determined to make the move within a year. It was no longer maybe in a year or two. It was definitely within the next 10 months, or so help me God. I told myself that. I told EVERYONE that. And then 21 months later I was sitting in my New Jersey apartment… in the dead of winter… wondering what the f*&! happened.
Life happened. Boyfriends, promotions, taxes, bachelorette parties, breakups, tragedy, illness and everything in between happened. I would never say that any of it was good or bad, or right or wrong. It all just was. I was sitting with all of that this past January. At the time I was just getting into the groove of a regular meditation practice. Part of the meditation was about practicing gratitude. So I allowed myself to be grateful for everything that had “gotten in the way” of my big west coast dream… all of the accomplishments and all of the things that hurt like hell. And after a little while my mind got quiet and I asked my heart a simple question… “What’s next kiddo?”
California was the #1 answer and it popped up in big, pink neon letters with balloons and confetti and a side of chocolate ice cream cake. Believe it or not my first response was (you guessed it) maybe in a year or two. However, after some more meditation and a push from my supportive and loving community and family, I made it out here about 2 weeks ago. I’m writing to you all from sunny La Jolla with plans to crush a job interview and to sign a lease on an apartment all before Friday.
What I’m getting at is that the year or two (or in my case 6 or 7 of them), is a magnificent thing. It's the maybe that got in my way. It wasn’t until I gave my heart the upmost attention when the maybes and potentiallys became distant exes. Dropping those roadblocks allowed me to get intimate with WHO I authentically was and WHAT I actually wanted and WHEN I wanted it. Its cliché as hell, but listen to that damn heart of yours (especially if you
… And how fitting is it that someone who I love, and also helped me drive out west, created a song titled Maybe in a Year or Two?