The not-so-perfect truth.
Here’s the thing about social media and the world today. It’s easy to write when everything is good—to post a selfie when you just got your hair did and are looking fine; to humble-brag about your latest accomplishment; to post about big (positive, of course) life changes like a new job, relationship, or move.
We’re all a lot less likely to log in and share when things aren’t so good.
So this is my effort at accountability and keeping it real. I stopped posting a few months ago because, frankly, this has pretty much been the worst summer of my life. It’s been one disaster after another, all of which started rolling in like crashing waves in quick succession right as I moved to L.A.: relationship crises, legal trouble, financial hardships, friendship breakdowns, even a surprise jaw reconstruction.
I definitely have as much of an emo tendency as anyone else, but I think it’s fair to say that, for the most part, I have a fairly positive outlook on life. I know who I am, I dream big and work hard, and I value love above all else.
But I have reached the end of my rope in a way that I never have before and am having a hard time getting in touch with all of those aforementioned things. Emotionally, mentally, and literally in the physical sense, my existence feels like it’s bone rubbing on bone without any ligaments to cushion the harshness. I am tapped out in every sense and to a level that I never have been before. I don’t know what end is up.
Especially as summer dwindles into autumn—my most favoritest time of the year—I miss my beloved Boston and wonder what (and why) I gave [it] up. I spend way too much time dreaming of apple and cinnamon and pumpkin and cozy sweaters and newly-freed boots and crisp air and that specific way the sunlight filters through fire-hued leaves. I miss the city that always felt like a friendly face even in my loneliest moments. I wish I could run back. If I could go tomorrow, the truth is that I probably would.
But I can’t.
There’s that seed of me that still feels like me way deep down. And that part of me knows there’s no running. Fleeing back to Boston won’t undo everything that’s been done. And maybe this is all part of the transition—it’s about more than just refinishing furniture and discovering new places. Maybe there are reasons yet to unfold that require me to find my footing anew … even if I want to kick and scream the whole way through.
I will say one thing about this season-less place: Today after a meeting in Santa Monica just a couple of blocks up from the ocean, I walked down to the beach for a quick reprieve. Save for the lowering sun which glinted against the water, it was just one huge expanse of blue, with the ocean reaching as far as the eye could see, to the point where it was almost impossible to tell where the water ended and the sky began. I took my shoes off and I walked to the water, letting the tide rise in up to my knees and my toes sink into the sand. And in those few moments, I thought: There’s something to this place.







