About six years ago, I spent an entire morning in the ER with a fever. I must’ve been discharged by the hospital quickly ‘cause I remember, later that afternoon already being at home; comfortably laying belly-down on my wobbly, two-mattresses-too-high, daybed while “Heartbreak Kid” was on TV. It was the first time I’d caught the movie from the beginning. The sun was setting and the cool breeze pushed me further into a daze. Despite the body aches and congestion, that moment was bliss. I wanted to remember it, specifically and vividly. After all, it was my birthday.

I am a firm believer in “everything happens for a reason;” a reason that is far greater than our current, limited understanding. Whether our desire to know-it-all is driven by curiosity, fascination, or pride, I find there’s a peace reclining in the notion that someway, somehow things will work out. Albeit, I’m a creature of incessant worrying. Still, I’ve been able to step back and recognize when pieces come together in a very precise process, all the while being partly outside of my control. All packed up and defiantly ready to go, there was something in the way to get here. It’s no surprise the night prior to leaving New York required a visit to the ER with food poisoning.

It took months to commit to a flight date
and weeks to cope with the decision.

Sunday was a day of rehydrating and absorbing the fact that I was really leaving. TWO MORE DAYS. This was no longer just a daydream while watching a dingy-ass VHS recording of “Clueless.” It was now becoming a reality. Whatever ideas I had about Los Angeles were going to be met head on, whether it would all turn out great, horribly, or just meh.

I was in a melancholy state that felt like an eternity. I was slow. I

One sore throat, sinus, fever, stomach virus and postponed flight later, I had finally made it to California.

I’d rather be a believer than a cynic. The latter leaves little room for growth.

A day hasn’t gone by since I’ve moved to LA where I don’t feel guilty for neglecting this blog. I’ve struggled during the last three months to find the right words to share all these amazing experiences with you–how to outline it…, where to begin…, how not to drag it into a novel-like entry (or series). Each day that goes by, I feel disappointed for not writing. I will get to what life’s been like in detail, but right now, what I’m feeling in this moment seems most important to describe.

I’m overwhelmed with sadness when the sun begins to set each Sunday. Like today.

I’m just not ready to let the day go. I’m sure many people can relate. The weekend is for me. Time outside of work. I feel selfish for wanting more time and lousy for being such a procrastinator, but who doesn’t? I remember ten years ago when I lived for the night. When everything became quiet. I could write. I could cry. I could play piano and write poetry. All with no consequence for the following morning. There was a safety in all of that solitude. Now, living in Los Angeles–this place that I’ve ached for, deep in my heart to be in and dreamt of as a child–all I want is the sunlight and activity.

CARPE DIEM

Every weekend I wander around, either taking care of errands, shopping for items to make this bedroom feel more like home, or meeting new people. I knew one day soon I would burn out. Finally, yesterday, I did. I needed to lay around, enjoy a nice dinner and rest in front of the TV. Literally, every single day here, has been spent anywhere. Being out and about felt like an obligation to my new home, this city, and this journey that I’ve somehow had the balls to follow through on. I wanted to consume as much of my environment as I could. Otherwise, I’d feel as if I let a day go to waste. Something I had no issue with back in New York, where plenty of sunny days were spent flipping through Netflix. A part of all of this sadness boils down to not writing, allowing myself enough time to reflect, and put everything ‘on paper.’

I want to be alone in private, but I don’t want to feel alone. While meeting new friends, I’m now juggling between time for adult responsibilities, socializing and peace.

“You need to set time aside, even if you have to block out some people for a while.” Maybe that’s why I feel so overwhelmed here. It’s not necessarily a bad thing—I’ve been overwhelmed with joy and gratitude for having a home, a roommate and a job to sustain it all. But then there’s this stuff, and sadness that’s stripping my confidence away. I’m learning new things and feel inadequate. Each week I have to prepare myself with some kind of emotional armor because I’m sure to get hit. Every day, like a guarantee, there’s something at work that makes me feel so small. I allow people to be superior over me, even though my light is contributing to their day and to their success. They are human, afterall, just like me. No matter how difficult transitions were in New York, having loved ones nearby gave me some kind of protective barrier from the big world. Now, I’m falling without any sort of safety net.

The familiarity is all gone. One exciting aspect: I’m building a new map of memories here. I’m collecting all these street signs and creating daily habits. Beyond that, there’s nothing. Back home in New York, there were people who’ve passed through in my life and knowing they’re within the same vicinity was some subliminal comfort. Even people who I haven’t physically seen for decades would put me at ease. I’m reminded of it every time I scrolled through Facebook and feel the distance.

I’ve been living in fear. One Thursday morning, I couldn’t resist texting my mother and friends to pray for me, to pray the day’s issue would resolve. I was shaking and crying in the bathroom. First, I was afraid to be here. Now, I was afraid that I am.

“You’re way too hard on yourself,” my roommate would tell me (or anyone who would hear my woes). I treat things with permanence, as if it would be the end of the world if I had some hand in destructing something. If I’m not part of the solution, I must be the problem. But I’m not the problem. I haven’t given myself enough credit for how brave it is to move cross-country — alone – without any certainty of where I’d live or work. I’m grateful for God’s guidance; and trusting in this path, no matter how often I doubted it.

Everyone who’s an LA transplant has told me it will get easier, birthdays will get better and your circle of friends will become stronger. I’m approaching four months as a resident and I’m hopeful one day I’ll look back on this and be okay. Better than okay. But sometimes it sucks.

Last Sunday I attended a new church: Hillsong LA, connected to the Australian church and worship band that I discovered through Spotify. I feel at harmony there, more than I ever had in any church. It was a delight to be there again today. I wondered if I would make a new friend. Soon. Maybe next Sunday. Things will come together so long as I’m proactive. I just need time to adjust. I wish there were an extra day between Saturday and Sunday to help me cope, and hope those who strike my armor would show mercy for the new kid.

JAN. 11.

I’M REALLY EMOTIONAL TODAY.

I remember about seven years ago, I searched through Craigslist for vocal lessons. A midtown ad caught my eye. The vocal teacher offered lessons for a reasonable price and flexible availability. Our weekly appointments were the highlight of that winter and spring. It was a means to stay occupied after wrapping up a temp office job. Singing was something special, just for me. I was trying to discover if I had the potential to improve, or if it would ignite my courage to explore other creative outlets that could be more fitting.

One afternoon, every week, I took a ride along east side Manhattan toward Grand Central station. The #4 train seemed more polished than the subway line that I normally use. The lights were brighter. The carts felt more spacious. The automated conductor was clearer than the mumblings. The rush hour noise and fuss was faint beyond the tunes from my headphones. I was in my own world, reading The Power of Now* while listening to music.

The self-help book kept reminding the reader to live more consciously in the present moment, rather than giving into distractions of the past or the unpredictability of the future. I remember another book with a similar theme, The Secret*, suggested that once a specific desire was in the forefront of your mind, taking actions toward that goal would set the universe in motion, to attract opportunities that would be in your favor.

It must of stuck.

When autumn was approaching, my plans to move were becoming a reality. Switching out seasonal clothing was an excuse to slowly start setting aside items to pack. Light blouses, skirts, dresses, bikinis… It made space for the dreadful sweaters and thick plush socks to stay behind. It helped to reassure myself to continue on with this west-bound idea. But, for the most part, it was a means to convince myself that this goal would finally manifest at some point. I was being productive, while also being very complacent with ambiguous plans.

I made myself sick.

Sometimes I blame it on over-thinking and a bland diet. Other times, I figure I caught a bug while hugging a PSU friend.

It was the first Friday of 2015 and he stopped by for lunch. He wanted to try a local Spanish restaurant. It would be the last time he’ll see me before my departure. He ordered arroz con gandules, pollo, a side of yuca, and — my absolute favorite — maduros. He asked about what I plan to do when I got out to Cali., how were my parents handling it all, and how I spent the holidays.

In a nutshell, I told him about New Years day.

Mom, my aunt, cousin and I got ready to visit my grandmother. Mom packed a few DVDs for entertainment options while we eat. They chose a family-friendly musical. After I ate two plates, soothing hunger pains, I laid on the couch opposite my cousin. My aunt sat in the rocking chair while Mom was in the recliner. Once the credits were rolling, Grandma started sorting through Christmas cards to hand out to each of us. Mom bursted into tears.

I didn’t know how to tell her.
I didn’t know how to tell her. She doesn’t know.
Mami, she’s leaving.

My aunt ran over to comfort her baby sister. I sat up, stunned for a moment. It was never a secret that I planned to leave in October, so give or take a few months didn’t seem devastating. I couldn’t help giggling as I tried to talk to my mom. Yes, it’s heartbreaking to see your mother cry — the strong forager, protector and counselor of your life — but as her chubby cheeks bunched up, it dawned on me how delicate even Moms can be. Almost like a baby.

Grandma didn’t seem too pleased. “Why ‘you leaving” felt more like a scolding rather than a question. I made light of my plans: how temporary and open-ended they were, in order to ease her worries. I went to the bathroom just for privacy. As I closed the door, I overheard my cousin present to them the potential rewarding experience this could be for me. I glanced at the mirror and started to cry. Toughen up. I took some tissue, blew my nose, and flushed the toilet. I washed my hands like a typical bathroom break. I didn’t want them to see me cry, too.

My cousin defended me; diplomatically, as usual. I went on to explain how Grandma was worried about how it would effect my cousin. He’s like another big brother, who has trooped along through random adventures with me over the years. I finished the story midway into our Caribbean lunch.

“You’re not going to cry, are you, Ang?”

I nodded the tears away.

JAN. 12.

Since making the reservation, only days before Christmas, every possible chance to gather family and friends seemed inconvenient — either to my restlessness or to the expected holiday plans. Sometimes both. I would remain still with each passing day. In denial. Time had no patience for my anxiety. Days were wasted, but I’d use some form of bogus justification.

People were busy.
Or so I would assume.

Later that night, while having a drink with my cousin and two friends, one of them encouraged me to just send the invites. I typed a short message and hit send. In the coming days, the invitations were scattered through various methods, and names would suddenly come to mind. The wondering. The disbelief. My effective, organized planning skills were disoriented when I needed it most.

I spent the greater portion of last week in bed with sinus, sore throat and a slight fever. It doesn’t surprise me that I’m writing this entry as I sit in the ER waiting room, 12 hours before my flight.

The family doctor had little to recommend beside a nasal spray. Is this really happening? Is this really how I’m going to spend the last few days in New York? The thought of it getting worse freaked me out–getting through packing, seeing everyone and traveling. Aleve did the best it could to subside the pain, but I was still aching, mentally.

I wanted to see my brother, his wife and kids, and visit my sisters and their kids. She asked about having an intimate gathering at home, something special. I had originally planned on a local bar/grill meetup, then going to the city the following night to see those who lived much further. Anything “intimate” would have disassembled all my effort to remain detached from my surroundings. Be still. In denial.

As I said last time, I have a tendency to get sentimental on the drop of a dime. Friday night the boys went out with me for a drink and chocolate cake. We wandered through the neighborhood like old times.

“Okay, let’s go around and share our favorite ‘Angelina moment.'”
“The brownies!”
“Remember that time you fell asleep in her bathtub?”

I started to cry and laugh, and kept eating my lollipop, hoping I wouldn’t hysterically cry. We hadn’t spent as much time like this for a long while. A part of the sadness was missing a certain time and space, wanting to re-experience those moments; and wondering of moments lost. Nothing’s ever the same.

Sunday morning, my best friend and her boyfriend were getting ready to drive back up to Boston. They had come to celebrate this new journey the night before and got to meet some of my former coworkers. Barely having slept, we bid farewell and I was wide awake in bed.

I cried. Looking at my bedroom. Walking through the kitchen. Mom passing by, wearing our matching polka dot robe. Dad shuffling in his slippers to the bathroom, wearing his homemade pajamas. All these people wanted to see me. They traveled all sorts of distances. They shared stories. They gave me the biggest hugs. They wished me the best of luck. “Once you land, I’m texting, calling, emailing everyone out there. You will get work!”

I thought over how much I played down the possible permanence of this trip, so that it’s not a big deal to everyone, or big enough to disappoint myself. Then I realize I am incredibly loved, as I stare into the mirror: Wow, this is what I look like in the morning?

Despite how much I’ll miss everyone, I started to wonder what could happen in my absence. Maybe the two people who I mediate between will begin to collaborate better. Maybe the friend who inspires me will recognize they had the creative fortitude within themselves all along. Maybe the innate psychologist will be delighted by all my social observations and comparisons to include into their studies.

I feel sad. Only in the moment cause I’m still here. Sometimes what’s been taken for granted, or what gives us ease is knowing your loved ones are in the next room, but realizing that distance will become 3,000 miles is saddening. It’s all new, but it’s all beautiful (and a little melodramatic, too). I keep telling myself it’s only temporary. For several months I became secluded, to avoid having to make light of this career dry spell and resting in the denial of the imminent change. I guess I want to be more present and available this year.

And brave.

* CAVEAT: I no longer support the views of these books or authors, e.g. New Age, Laws of Attraction, and Manifesting.

I spend a lot of time walking through Walgreens, more than your average young adult. The cashiers ask about my parents. My parents and I share the same Rewards card and rack up the savings. Every year, moments before the candy corn goes on sale, the store stocks up on Christmas cards, decorations and quick gift sets—you’ve probably seen them. They’re like miniature water fountains, jewelry trees and other table-top items that you imagine someone might like or make use of. It’s the thought that counts, right?

Late 2012, just a few days leading up to Christmas, Walgreens had a shelf filled with piggy banks in white, each covered with pink polka dots. That thing was made for me.

I’m a grown woman, living in a teen-era bedroom.

I must’ve posted a photo of the piggy bank on Instagram… #ChristmasGift. I received one much larger that had polka dots in pastel colors. It was perfect. Each time something special happened during the year, I wrote a brief description on a Post-It note, folded it three times, and slipped the memory into the piggy bank. The tradition leads up to New Years Eve, when you open up the piggy bank to read all the notes and reminisce on positive things.

Nearly two years later, it still sits unopened on the piano beside my bed, filled with good memories.

If I had to sum up 2014 as a whole,
I’d say one half was okay
while the other was purgatory.

That’s not to say this year was completely void of amazing moments, accomplishments, and self-discoveries, but my overall sentiment is partly due to disappointment. Maybe somewhere along the line, deep in my subconscious or in outer space, I feel like I haven’t achieved as much progress as I had imagined or wanted. I ventured onto different experiences, with a much needed bravery boost, and worked with some great people on really exciting projects. Somehow, it mostly feels outward; a part from myself. I’m doing things for others. I’m helping them reach their goals. I’m contributing to their bottom line.

The bulk of freelancing is to be available and ready for any challenge. It’s very impromptu. Honestly, it’s a lifestyle that hasn’t settled well with the anxious creature that I am. Maybe my pride and stubbornness is in part of what pushed me through every fear this past summer and fall. The other part? Praying to Jesus to take the wheel, drive my cash-only kaboosh out of the EZ Pass lane during rush hour and keep my pulse pumping.

No, like seriously.

Eventually, I realized I had to start saying, “No.” I didn’t have to always be available at everyone’s beck and call. I was entitled to private time, days to take care of personal obligations, visit loved ones in the hospital, actually see the doctor to take care of my own health, etc. etc. I was a “people pleaser” to an unfair extent and, at times, underpaid and overworked. Behind the smiles and the “I’m doing great,” I was really alternating between depression, stress and doubts, not just about my life, but also about those around me.

It took years of me saying I’ll move to Los Angeles.
It took months of me claiming when I’ll go.
It took weeks for me to finally book a one-way flight.

In thirteen days I’ll be on the west coast. There’s so much planning that a person can do until life kicks in with surprises. So, I’m winging it. I was so scared and pessimistic within the last month, so much that I nearly forgot why I wanted to go in the first place. WTH. I’d often ask myself if this whole plan was crazy. Like a child, I was seeking some sort of reassurance or approval from someone. Anyone. Even though there have been so many words of encouragement along the way. But when it came down to making a decision — setting a date — I was beside myself.

I burst into tears for three seconds.
Booked.
That was easy.

I’m absolutely messed up, scared. Then I’m incredibly excited. I keep myself occupied, despite wanting to take care of a few creative goals, i.e. actually writing a blog entry a.k.a. sorry for the lack of updates.

Organizing laundry, making coffee, sweeping… Some of the most boring moments of my day brings me to tears. I could cry for a good five minutes. Other times it’s just a tear. I worry. A lot. And I’m very sentimental. I want to go — badly — and I want to stay (until the cold breeze hits my chubby face while I wait for a delayed train… again).

After booking my flight and AirBnB reservation, I started speaking with a potential roommate, someone who seems very similar to me. One evening, I was chatting with an acquaintance from LA about my plans and I guess the need for approval came in again. They may not have intended to be mean-spirited, but they laid out all my disadvantages right in front of me. Who am I to think that I’ll achieve certain progress in such a short [ budgeted ] amount of time? I’m not asking to be CEO, but my entire strategy seemed impractical. I cried. Yup, I did. I just felt crazy again.

I am NOT crazy.

That following afternoon, mi amigo and I went to explore the festive Christmas decorations in Manhattan. We walked from Penn Station to Grand Central. It reminded me of when I took vocal lessons. It was during a confusing time between semesters and working full-time as a finance office temp. It wasn’t particularly my expertise. In fact, this was within a three-year depression. Yikes. Unbeknownst to me at the time, a great change was approaching.

“This is where I’d get off the train and walk down that street to see her for the lessons,” I told him.

We were in the mood for Italian food and went on a search. “We need a place where we can always meet for lunch when you come visit from LA,” he said.

Each restaurant we walked up to was closed. “Maybe they’re closed because it’s Christmas week. You know how religious Italians can be!”

After another Yelp search, we found a spot and called to confirm their hours. We probably walked another ten blocks, but we made it. Two orders of Penne Rigate, a coke cola and Blue Moon. Buon Appetito. We crossed the street to start taking photos. I looked over to my left and couldn’t believe who I saw: my vocal teacher. I walked up to say hello and she greeted me with the biggest, warmest hug. She was so excited, “Are you two taking style photos?” I explained it’s for his new fashion blog and we chatted for a bit. I told her I was leaving to LA soon.

Maybe I don’t need approval. However, what I do need is positivity, and when she instantly spoke nothing but blessings over my plans, it just felt like a good sign. Out of the millions of people in this city, out of how-many-years-later, of all the streets and avenues, and of all the afternoons, I ran into someone who was seeing two parts of me. The insecure girl in college, trying to figure it all out and the still-somewhat-insecure young professional taking a 3,000-mile leap of faith.

I rethink about all the things my family, friends and colleagues have said: that they’re proud of me, that I am strong and brave, I am smart, and I will achieve my dreams in due time. And I remember that I am a child of God, with a purpose, that His plan is greater than mine. I need to trust in these things far more than giving into the worries that are based on imaginary scenarios. Their words build a rubberband ball of encouragement that gets larger by the day. Sometimes I lose it. Sometimes I forget. And since living in a limbo state for the past six months, I am finally edging towards a goal that will work out in some way. Maybe not exactly how I can imagine it, but somehow.

So, even though 2014 wasn’t particularly great, I am thankful for all the people and moments that made me smile between the messes. God willing, 2015 will be an amazing journey.