After 17 years in the vibrant streets of Los Angeles, I had mastered everything from navigating unpredictable traffic to enjoying the quirkiest coffee shops. I could parallel park on a hill with one hand, survived the legendary preschool waitlists, and embraced the city's unique charms. LA was home, and I envisioned my future flourishing there.

That all changed when a troublesome neighbor forced me to expand my home search beyond the city limits. I found myself browsing properties further afield, even eyeing Temecula—an hour and a half away—where homes came with expansive backyards and multi-car garages.

At that point, it seemed like a steal. I was losing bidding wars for million-dollar LA bungalows, but here I could get a sprawling McMansion with a pool surrounded by the serenity of the suburbs.

In 2022, my spouse and I packed up our three kids and embarked on a new life far from the city.

Initially, it felt like stepping into a fairy tale—rolling hills, quiet cul-de-sacs, and a home larger than I ever imagined. With 3,000 square feet of space, my kids turned the living room into a skatepark. It was supposed to be the suburban dream come true.

But as time passed, the charm of tranquility wore thin. I found myself longing for the buzz of LA, where endless restaurants offered spontaneous adventures. In contrast, Temecula felt like a ghost town, its chains shuttering by 9 p.m. What once seemed like a vacation soon turned into an endless cycle of loneliness.

Friends promised to visit for wine-tasting weekends, but the reality of long drives with traffic and kids meant only a couple ever made it.

As isolation set in, I found myself craving conversation and community. A week could pass without meaningful interactions, and my only dialogue was with Alexa as we bickered over music. I missed my old life—the late-night bookstores, the hip theaters, even the quirky neighbors who added color to my world.

Temecula’s polished streets and uniform homes felt artificial. One day, I called my partner, admitting, "I think we made a mistake." To which she simply sighed, "You think?"

We swiftly listed our home and set our sights back on LA.

In the end, we found a rental in a less trendy neighborhood—no pool, no lemon trees, and definitely less storage. But it had something we realized we truly missed: our community. We were back amidst the lively coffee shops, bumpy roads, and all the weird energy that comes with city life.

Sure, I faced the chaos of parking and the occasional odd sale pitch at the dog park, but for the first time in months, I felt like myself.

Through this experience, I learned I thrive in chaos, not calm. I crave connection over tranquility—whether it’s a packed grocery store, the bumper-to-bumper traffic on the 101, or unexpected hugs at Trader Joe’s.

Los Angeles may be chaotic, but it’s my kind of chaos. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.