Inevitably we’d fall into a conversation about where we lived.
How chic, I’d think, picturing a loft in Tribeca and a casita in the Hollywood Hills.
Boyfriend and dog in tow, I showed up in a moving van stuffed with everything I owned.
Though the boyfriend and job lasted only two months, New York ended up suiting me surprisingly well.
I became a freelance writer and, after just four years, wrote a book.
Then I landed a contract to write another one.
I was also stricken with loneliness.
I loved being a writer and could cobble together a living.
That said, how would I ever have a child if I couldn’t even find a boyfriend?
This kind of looping, free-form anxiety led to many sleepless nights and even a few panic attacks.
On my 30th birthday, I threw a big party at a bar whose garden was strung with lights.
I wore a short gold dress, and my pastry-chef neighbor made two types of cupcakes.
It was the kind of only-inNew York night that romantic comedies capitalize on.
But I managed to have fun, thrilled to be surrounded by so many friends.
I was taking a break from my life and felt like I could finally relax.
I was calmer there.
Energized by the prospect of living there, I hatched a plan.
At the same time, I could give living the bicoastal dream a shot.
Six weeks later, I pulled up to my new light-filled studio in southeast Portland.
It all felt like a triumphand in terms of escapism, it worked.
For one week a month, I lived in Portland, where I could put my anxieties on hold.
I even started sleeping with an ex-boyfriend who lived in the city.
I was able to put aside any worries I would typically haveWhat were we doing?
I was becoming the ultimate compartmentalizer.
Just as in New York, I’d lie awake in Portland worrying about the future.
Plus, I was still lonelyjust now on two coasts.
It wasn’t exactly a postcard-perfect time of year, and two weeks in I called my mom.
“Maybe you just don’t like living in Portland,” she said.
I knew she was right.
I needed to simply live.
Only then could I discover who I really was and what would make me happy.
I returned to the East Coast, ready to feel defeated.
But instead I was relieved.
Without the nagging impulse to escape, I felt grounded and eager to embrace my life there.
Eventually, I even went on a few dates and found a new friendpatiencethat deepened my writing, too.
Carrying only two suitcases, I vowed to get rid of anything that wouldn’t fit.
I made sure to leave room for my organic cotton sheets, though.
I knew I’d be sleeping well in New York.
Photo Credit: Hannah Whitaker
