The boy in the park.

We always have to remind ourselves that there will be good days, and there will be bad. No matter where we are in our lives, we will always have a mixture of both. Of course, we hope for the good; but in the heat of the bad, we have to remind ourselves to breathe.

Yesterday was a day I felt like I was constantly reminding myself to breathe.

I woke up missing LA. This isn't the first day this has happened (and I'm certain it won't be the last), but I just woke up with the aching feeling that it was just going to be a bad day. Thanks to my handy dandy, super smart friends--I tried to avoid that feeling. I tried to shove it to the back of my head and go on with the day in hopes that it would turn around. I just kept replaying in my head why I was in LA in the first place and why I left; though both decisions felt so strongly like they were the right ones, I couldn't grasp the success I had encountered in the city. I felt like I had failed.

So no surprise, my day did not actually turn around.

In the early afternoon, I had errands to run and after I was finished--I was annoyed. I was frustrated with myself that it was now four o'clock and my day still sucked, for lack of a better word. 

So I drove to this park.

I had never been to this park before, but I knew it existed because my brother loved playing basketball there and so I knew the general area it was in and I hoped it would be empty. I just wanted to sit, breathe and think. 

As I'm sitting at a picnic table in the back of the park, I'm so lost in my own thoughts that I didn't realize a boy was walking up to me. I looked up at the last second to see him cautiously approaching; he was probably sixteen years old and he looked just as stressed out as I'm sure I did.

"You're at the park alone?" It was kind of a question but I could tell he was awkwardly trying to make conversation. I have to admit I kind of inwardly groaned. I really, really didn't want to talk to anyone. Especially some teenage kid who I wasn't really sure if he was flirting with me (you are way too young for me, stranger in the park) or just looking for someone to chat with.

"Apparently, so are you," I laughed softly and smiled while realizing that was the first time I had laughed all day.

He sat down and told me he had gotten into an argument with his dad. He told me that he had just found out that he qualified and was potentially being offered a scholarship at UCLA. He told me that he had always had this passion for Southern California and Los Angeles.

I'm pretty sure my jaw dropped. This kid was me. I remember at 17 struggling with the idea of potentially moving to California. As much as I wanted to go during school, I knew it wasn't realistic. I explained to this kid that he should focus on school first, but not to let go of his dream or passion. I told him it was hard work, but if he wanted it badly enough, he could make it work.

He asked me to tell him my story; he wanted to know everything. How I started, what it was like and why I decided to come back.

I told him everything. Sleeping on an air mattress in Koreatown to sharing a one bedroom apartment with my friend, then a two bedroom apartment in the valley all the way to a two bedroom apartment in Beverly Hills/West Hollywood. He was in awe. And honestly? So was I.

I realized in that moment that I didn't fail. I focused on what I wanted, I worked hard and I made it happen. As we separated, he thanked me. He said my advice was honest and real, and he was thankful. Beyond that, I was thankful. I had talked myself through everything that had built up that day and I let it go. I literally felt a sense of peace and relief.

Before we went our different paths, I called out to him, "You're going to be okay." He smiled and nodded before saying, "So are you."

Thank you, boy in the park. I may have helped you, but I think you might have helped me more. Funny how life works out.

The Journey: Part Two.

Dear Los Angeles,

I've watched the cursor blink for five minutes trying to figure out where to even begin. What words do I choose to begin to explain the last three years of my life?

Flashback to three years ago--I was a wide-eyed, naive girl from the east coast with so much hope, passion and joy for something I didn't even understand. I had dreams and ideas of what this city was made of; I took a flying leap into this world I had never been immersed in, but I knew my heart wanted so badly to know how it would feel.

And I loved it.

I loved every moment of it.

I will never be able to express how thankful I am for my first initial job here. I started as a guest service agent at a boutique hotel in the middle of Beverly Hills. Every job has it's fair share of stress and frustration, but this job that paid a salary I'm still not sure how I survived on brought me to life. I worked with a handful of people who became my closest friends; people who introduced me to what it meant to live in Los Angeles. I met my best friend, who encouraged me to put all of my energy into being myself and living my life freely. And so that's what I did.

I lived, I loved and I experienced absolutely everything I had always wondered about. I let people in, I made connections with people I never thought I would have. I stopped being so afraid of things I didn't understand and I embraced this epic life that I had always imagined. I took walls down that I had put up for reasons unknown to me so long ago. I broke that barrier.

And then I pushed myself. I pushed myself to find another path that would lead me to more career experience. I learned what I liked and didn't like, I made connections with friends and people that I never would have imagined. One road took me to another and somehow I found myself in the middle of Hollywood working with people I had only ever dreamt of working with.

When I moved to Los Angeles, I hoped and prayed I would belong. I wanted to find a place where I fit in; where I felt like I was contributing to something bigger than myself. Living in Florida, I had great friends and a wonderful support system with my family but something was missing and, until I moved to California, I never really understood what. It's hard to put into words what I've found, but I can assure you that I've found it.

I've realized I am strong. I've realized that I can pick myself up and move to a place where the only thing I have on my side is hope and faith. And I've realized that it works. The last three years have been some of the best years of my life. Being in California has opened my eyes not only to this life that I had always wondered about, but also to the person I am and the person I have always been. California didn't change me; California gave me the opportunity to really get to know myself and understand who I am, what I like and what I want to do.

I don't think I could have ever realized when moving here that I would become so insightful and learn so much about myself. Growing up, we're directed and motivated by our parents. We follow a blue print that has been given to us. This is not a bad thing, but we come to a point where we have to make our own decisions--and California was mine. I am so thankful to my family for supporting the last three years of my choices and the life that I have lived. I am so thankful to the people I have met in this city who have helped me learn and make decisions that have brought me to who I am today.

Leaving Los Angeles has been one of the hardest things I think I have ever decided to do. My love for this city is undeniable. My love for the friends and people who have helped me and guided me while I've been here is, also, undeniable. I will never forget any of the moments or experiences that I have had while being here.

I've always struggled with the word "home". Leaving Florida is difficult, because to me--that is "home". Coming to Los Angeles is heart-warming, because to me--this is "home". For the last three years, I am grateful to say I have had two homes. And I remind myself in these difficult moments that I will still have two homes.

This is not goodbye, Los Angeles. This is an "I'll see you later". Just as I left a piece of my heart in Florida, I'm leaving a piece here, as well. I can't wait to see you again.

Thank you for everything.

The Journey Home.

I remember when I moved here, there was a part of me hoping I would hate it.

That's such a strange goal, right? Picking up your entire life and moving somewhere new, only to hope that maybe you would hate it and you would want to turn around and go home.

But I fell in love. Los Angeles is everything I ever expected it to be. I've been amazed (more than once) by the bright lights and the extravagant parties. I stumbled upon feature films being filmed and I learned how to parallel park (I'm also officially a pro at reading parking street signs and knowing all about LA's street cleaning schedule). I could tell you how to get to the valley or when it's okay to drive on the 405 (answer: never).

When I moved to LA in the first place, so many people asked me the same question: "Why?"

I didn't really have an answer I wanted to speak out loud, but I told some of my close friends and family something along the lines of this: I never knew who I was before. I always had someone to lean on, someone to depend on or someone to fall back on. I wanted independence. I wanted to figure out who I was on my terms. I wanted to feel alive.

And I did.

I came here and I found friendships in places I never thought I would. I traveled, I experienced things I never would have I never left Florida in the first place. I went out a lot, I knew how to have a good time and maintain a full-time job simultaneously. I even worked (sort of) in the industry I had wanted to work in all along. Life. Was. Great.

Life was great until I realized some things, one of which being who I am (which was why I moved to LA to begin with).

Once I realized who I am as a person and what makes me feel happy and safe and free and alive; I realized this was no longer the place for me to be.

I have a friend who left LA probably about a year and a half ago. As she was packing up to leave (she had about three extra years here under her belt), I remember going to lunch with her and being shocked she was living this big, old city full of dreams to go back to her small town in Nebraska. She didn't explain, but she smiled and said, "Trust me. When you know, you'll know."

And now I know.

So go ahead and ask me why this time, I won't hesitate to tell you.

I miss my family; I want to reconnect with them and see them more than twice a year (without having to spend $600+ to make that happen each time). I want to go to UCF football games and be a part of the alumni association. I want to see the sunrise over the Atlantic and set over the Gulf. I want to go to Kohl's with my mom and then get lunch at Chick-fil-a one Saturday because we can. I want my family to be a part of my life.

That is who I am now. That girl inside has always been there, I think she just had to get a little bit of crazy out of her system.

So, thank you, Los Angeles. You have raised my adult-self well. I will be back to visit annually, I promise you. You will always have a very special place in my heart and I will never forget the lessons you've taught me or the people you placed in my life as I figured out who I am.

And to Florida, I've missed you more than I ever thought I would admit. I'm ready to come home now.

And just as I set a deadline to move to LA, I set one now. See you September 1st.

The moment of Happenstance.

It's been seven years.

My Pop Pop was a really great guy. We weren't related by blood, which I guess made me realize fairly early on that DNA doesn't necessarily decide who our family is.

His wife had passed away from cancer somewhere around the time my grandfather was killed in an accident. My Dad was just a teenager; my grandmother still young. And they were alone. My grandmother is quite the social butterfly--she especially was when she was younger. So she started going to these square dancing classes through her church (let's talk about a true, Southern Baptist love story here). And they met there. I never knew much of the details; they were never "a couple", I guess. But they loved each other. It's a story I've never really understood, if we're being honest. My Pop Pop was always there when we would visit and they would travel down to North Carolina to see us. He would stay for a few days and then keep driving to Florida to see his kids while my grandma would stay with us. He would pick her back up on his way up North.

I guess they never got together for a few reasons--I truly believe my grandmother never wanted to remarry after my grandfather passed, and I think my Pop Pop felt the same way. And I'm also pretty certain they would either drive each other crazy or kill one another if they actually lived together (he was a clown and my grandma has always been a little bit [or a lot] stubborn--now we know where I get it from). But they loved each other. They loved each other a lot. They would have fish on Sundays and she would make him stuffed cabbage or lasagna or whatever he wanted during the week. With both of their families living so far away, they were all each other had.


He never acted sick. I think he knew he was sick, but he decided to keep it to himself. He had a bad leg, but he never let that stop him. He still went with us to Disney World or would square dance with Grandma in the kitchen while whistling and singing, "Hey good lookin', what'cha got cookin'" over and over until she rolled her eyes and wanted to hit him with her rolling pin and my brothers and I were giggling, rolling around on the floor.

He went in for a simple surgery, and he never woke up.


The one way I always knew he was around was when I could smell his tobacco. He always had his pipe and tobacco on him; it was such a sweet smell and it was so calming to me. After he passed, my Grandma gave me one of his handkerchiefs. I remember trying to only touch it or smell it when I absolutely needed to, because I didn't want that smell to go away.

I never really knew what I believed in, but I believed he was with me after he passed away.

One night, I was driving home from Ft. Lauderdale with three of my friends. We had gone on a road trip to follow one of our favorite bands around Florida and were driving back at two o'clock in the morning because we didn't want to spend money on a hotel (pretty sure my mom doesn't know this story; sorry, mom). I was driving; they had tried to stay awake, but they all ended up falling asleep. I was trying to avoid toll roads so I trusted my GPS to take us on some off-highways or side roads to avoid a major bill driving on a toll road all the way from South Florida to Orlando.

We were on a reallllllly small street--totally dark, no street lights or anything. I was exhausted. I had been awake since six the morning before and I was the one who had been doing all of the driving. I felt tired, but I knew I had to keep going. Out of nowhere (we were literally in the middle of a huge field; no houses, no other streets, no nothing) I was overwhelmed by this smell of tobacco. It was so overwhelming, my eyes widened and I slowed the car down. I looked around--I wanted so desperately to see someone on the side of the street smoking a pipe, or see a house even that would validate the fact that someone could be smoking tobacco nearby. But it just smelled like him.

And when I looked back to the road, there was a family of raccoons staring straight into my headlights that forced me to hit my brakes even harder to avoid colliding with them. My friends all woke up startled, and I just stared at the raccoons as they walked off of the road.

Maybe it was just a weird coincidence.
Maybe there was a house I didn't see, or a person looming in the field somewhere.

But I still like to think it was him. Had I not been so alert and already started to slow my car down, I probably would have plowed through the raccoons and ended up in the ditch by the road. Or maybe I wouldn't have, I guess we'll never know.

All I know is that I miss him. And when I do catch that scent of tobacco, my heart flutters and I thank him for choosing to be my family.