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.

Merry Christmas from Los Angeles.

The holidays are always hard when they're spent three thousand miles away from family (though I remember working many Christmas Eves and Christmases while in college [thank you, Walt Disney World]). Last year I was fortunate enough to be home for Thanksgiving and Christmas both, but this year it just wasn't doable.

Tonight I had to run to Target quickly (yes, I am one of those--this was the epitome of procrastination) to pick up some last minute things for tomorrow. As I hurried out my front gate to walk the short block and a half, I noticed how clear the sky was tonight. For LA, that's kind of a rarity. Just as I looked up, I noticed a plane flying with a red light flashing and instantly, my heart felt heavy.

Red flashing lights on planes are quite common, but tonight it took me back to memory I have when I was probably three years old. My brother was barely walking, so that sounds about right. We were all in our family room talking about Santa's arrival and discussing what we wanted for Christmas (this consisted of me rambling off my Christmas list and making up my brother's; I was his keeper for the first five years of his life [actually longer, but he'll never admit to that]).

My mother was desperately trying to put us to bed but I was still going on about Barbies for me and Matchbox cars for my "Cotty", as I referred to him because I just couldn't understand how to put an "S" in there.

In the moment, my Mom thought it would be neat to look out the window for Santa. As she's pulling back the curtain, I remember her saying, "We need to be on the lookout because if Santa comes and you're awake, he won't stop here. You have to be sleeping." My eyes went to the sky and I gasped in sheer terror and excitement.

There in the sky was a red flashing light. "It's Rudolph! Come on, 'Cotty!" I proceeded to drag my baby brother and try to herd my grandmother and parents out of the room and to bed. I wanted that Barbie, gosh darn it.

I laughed when I saw "Rudolph" in the sky tonight. But again, my heart felt heavy. Tonight, I'm not asking for a Barbie or a Matchbox car for my brother. Tonight, I'm so incredibly thankful for this magical thing they call Skype and for the long-winded phone calls my family holds with me to make me feel like I'm there.

I, also, remember my Mom telling me when I was little that she liked the idea that when two people in different parts of the country were looking at the moon late at night, they were looking at the same moon. It's like sharing a moment.

Tonight I'm looking at the moon and I hope they are too.

Merry Christmas, from Los Angeles.

The clouds paint the sky beautiful.

This morning, the sunrise was near perfect. The pinks and purples pitted the clouds and lifted away the navy and black from the night before. The clouds rolled out like a red carpet, almost, giving way to the rising sun and the Tuesday that sat before us. It was stunning; definitely one of my top five favorite sunrises (...is it lame that I can remember where and when my favorite sunrises were?). 

So you can imagine my surprise when I got to work and realized that amazing sunrise led to absolutely nothing. The sky was bleak and gray; the smog wasn't bad, but the clouds themselves hovered over the mountain tops and took away so much life from the buildings. The ice skating rink next to my office has been empty all day. No one wants to be outside; it's cold and dark and winter. 

All day, I was almost disappointed. I walked down to the beach on my lunch break to just get some fresh air, but it still just seemed so bleak. I was certain that even with such a stunning sunrise, the rest of the day would be downhill from there. That sunrise had given me hope, and that hope had seemingly led me to nothing.

Just about thirty minutes ago, I realized there was a glare on my computer from the sun. Surprised, I glanced out the floor-to-ceiling window behind my cubicle and had to do a double take. In the insanity and chaos of my work afternoon, I completely missed how the clouds had begun to dissipate and head out to sea, taking the sun with it. Just like this morning, they've rolled out like a carpet, almost. Now the yellows and oranges and pinks are coming through, illuminating the underbelly of the clouds. The sunshine is hitting the mountain tops, the buildings; there are people ice skating and the PCH is busy. It's still chilly, but the bleakness of the day is now gone.

And it's in this moment that I realize: sometimes we're covered with clouds. We have problems or drama or things that build up and cover our mountains, our buildings and our minds. But when we pull ourselves together and shine as bright as we can, we start to see our clouds in a different way. They aren't disheartening or problematic anymore; it's almost as if it's then that we can see just how beautiful life really is--even with the problems that seem to sometimes consume us like the clouds consume the mountaintops.

So take a breath and let it be. 

Life is kind of beautiful if you learn to see beyond the clouds.

Today was a really great day.

I spent five weeks working for Hollywood, and I hate it.

There is a huge part of me that feels crushed as I begin this entry.

Moving to California meant so much to me: glamour, red carpets, and I think, ultimately, I hoped I would find myself.

I tried to fight it. There were some cool moments--like talking with various producers, the Emmy awards, various interviews, admiring hair and make-up teams come in to make my boss look fabulous. But in the end? In the end I only felt exhausted--which led to me feeling bitter, angry, annoyed and set-back.

There are so many emotions all rolled into this, but all I can feel lately is that I want to cry.

I want to cry because this was what I wanted! I wanted to be in the middle of everything; I wanted everything to feel like it was working. And I pushed and forced and made it fit in this box until my box broke and everything fell apart.

And now I feel like this kid:

[I know, I know; this is the new "image" of the government shut down, so my usage for it probably seems way more pathetic. But still.]

I'm standing at the gate of Hollywood, and it's closed.

Not because this was "my only chance". There's a part of my heart that realizes there are a gazillion more chances out there. But there's another part of my heart that realizes the inevitable I never really thought I'd announce:

I hate Hollywood.

I hate everything about it.

It's fake, it's overrated, it's expensive, it's trashy, it's dirty, it's gross.

I love where I live; but I hate the city in which I want to work and produce and interact with people.

So now here I am at this brick wall, once again.
Where do I go from here?
I fought for this "dream" I thought I had, but I'm beginning to realize I never really fully understood this dream until I came and explored it for myself. And maybe that's a good thing? Maybe we need to do that at some point in our lives. I know twenty years from now I'd always be wondering what could have been.

But my heart still feels sad.
Because ultimately, I think I knew who I was all along and Hollywood only made me forget that. I'm sad because I feel established here. I'm sad because I don't know where to go or what path I'm supposed to take. California was always so clear; so certain. And now? Now I feel like I'm standing in a corner surrounded by fog, and I have no idea who I'm supposed to be or where I'm supposed to go.

'Cause this was my one, last chance to breathe.

Honesty hour.

Had you asked me one month ago, I was ready to give up.

Actually, being honest? I think I had already given up and I was barely going through the motions of life and reality and being a human being. I kinda had this feeling of hopelessness; this feeling that everything I thought my life would become was dissolving and it was over. I had hit that grown-up moment where I realized dreams were merely dreams and fantasies, and would never amount to anything.

And then everything changed.

It was an insane process. I was asked to resign from my job where I had been employed for over a year and a half. I don't have anything bad to say about that company; I learned a lot of lessons and truly feel stronger in this moment. Besides, I hated everything about that place; I hated what I was doing, I hated being confined to an office, and I hated everything about accounting. I was doing everything I could to interview on my lunch breaks, before work or after work. So I was on my way out; I think I just would have preferred it being on my terms.

The positive about resigning is that the company offered me a two week notice, so I would continue to be paid for two weeks but would not come into the office. I was in ultimate panic mode. I applied for so many jobs, my e-mail inbox is littered with interview confirmations, call backs and rejections. I was determined to try to spend the eight hours a day I normally would at work, either interviewing, applying or searching for work.

Two opportunities presented themselves.
1. A sales position for a well-known recruitment firm worldwide that would compensate very well.
2. A personal assistant/nanny position for an actress in Hollywood that pays a little more than what I made before (but gives me room to travel with her while she goes to film on location, reading scripts as they come in to see if she'd be up for the role, coordinating with various big-time networks for her interviews, deciding on which dress she's going to wear to the Emmy awards and working with her agent and manager on getting her the best roles possible).

In my right hand, I held somewhat stability (office jobs are typically more stable and reliable than industry jobs). It felt safe. That was my comfort zone.
In my left hand, I held opportunity. It felt like a learning experience. I knew I'd be thrown out of my comfort zone.

I only deliberated on this for maybe an hour.
And then I decided to take the leap. Because maybe, just maybe, this is the path I was meant to take.
(Though I've learned that even if it's not, in order to survive we must keep moving and if we keep moving, eventually something will pan out).

My first day on the job was the last day my previous company was paying me. Funny how life works out :).

It's been a week so far. The hours have been long, the tasks have been creatively challenging (though I love that--I have seriously missed creative freedom), and working in Hollywood has been insane.

But...I love it?
And I genuinely feel in my heart that with the people I'm meeting, the experiences I'm having and the way this is working: my dream might not just be an unrealistic fantasy, after all.

Welcome to Hollywood, kid.

This path I've seemingly chosen.

The past week and a half has been the most difficult ten days I've encountered since I moved to Los Angeles to begin with. I find myself suffering through that same uncertainty; the pain of being away from home, the agony of trying to figure out what I'm doing with my life and the insanity of running through every, single life-option I could have chosen and trying to decide why I chose this one.

I've been beating myself up because I've taken all of this stress and frustration out on those closest to me and that's not fair. So I decided to write it all down. Because let's face it, words (as simple as they may seem) are my outlet and I have so much to express.

So many of my friends are getting married (or already are married), are having babies (or have babies), or are on some ridiculously, perfectly planned career path they've seemed to intricately map, plan and begin to journey.

And here I am: coming home from a job that I hate every day, popping a cup of ramen in the microwave because that's all that I have the energy to make, sitting on the couch watching NetFlix and going to sleep. Wash, rinse, repeat. In the last few days, I've felt like I'm at this point in my life where nothing makes sense anymore.

A little over two years ago, I packed up my car and moved to California like it was nothing. Seriously. It was literally a no-brainer and I still have no clue why it was so simple or why I was strangely unfazed by what I was doing. Somehow, something inside of me decided that this was what I was going to do and so I did it. Fast-forward to present day: and here I am. I survived the daunting experience of becoming a transplant in one of the most expensive cities in the United States.

This is the point in which I've been awkwardly twiddling my thumbs and asking: "...now what?"

So today I was over it. I'm tired of waking up every day and feeling like I haven't grown up since I've been here. I'm tired of asking myself why.

So I pulled myself out of my apartment and to my car and started driving. At first, I wasn't really sure where I was going...but I just started driving anyway.

I ended up on the corner of 7th and Gramercy--in the heart of Koreatown. Koreatown is a section of downtown Los Angeles, which is where I moved when I first found myself in LA. It was all I could afford (in fact, I could only afford to sleep on a twin-sized air mattress on the floor of practically a stranger in her studio apartment). I parked and walked around; it was familiar but at the same time it felt distant. This was a part of my life that I remember counting every penny and pushing myself to find something stable; a job that would just get me through. I dreamt of getting out of K-Town. But I was hopeful, and I knew some day I would.

And I did. And then I found a group of friends who made me feel like family. So I got back in my car and found myself in the valley where I spent a year of my life. I parked across the street from the apartment my friend and I spent our days and nights in. Again, it was so familiar and yet, I felt different being there all this time later (as it's been just about a year as of tomorrow since I lived there). I remember not being able to go out very much because I lived so far away from Hollywood. I remember commuting to and from work; being in the "valley" meant trying to save as much money as I could to get out of the valley. I dreamt of getting out of the valley; and I knew that I eventually would.

And then I ended up back in West Hollywood in front of my apartment. This being the apartment where I can walk pretty much everywhere. We live across the street of the SLS, right next to the Beverly Center. I live in the city. I'm a quick drive to the sights of West Hollywood and Hollywood, itself (literally a $6 cab fare [with tip!]). I've enjoyed many nights on the rooftops of hotels, exploring different bars and restaurants. I've sat on my living room floor drinking wine with friends as we watched the sunrise creep up and illuminate the hills of Hollywood.

As I visited each spot I've landed myself in since I've been in California, I realized something. I'm not the same girl. And while all of my friends have built their lives beautifully, I've built mine, too--just in a different way. But it's a way that I've always known in my heart was meant for me. It's a way that I truly believe I was destined to be, otherwise driving to California wouldn't have felt so simple and so seamless.

So here I am, reminding myself that I'm where I'm supposed to be in this moment and that I have grown and that I am going to be okay.

Here's to learning to trust the path we've chosen, even if it is the "path less traveled".