Ch. 4- Life in California for 3 years. Learning Skills on Solo Trips, Machu Picchu, + Banff.

So I ended up making the big move to California from Connecticut—a choice that had been circling my mind for years. Oh, California. A true love–hate relationship. This is my future self speaking now, looking back and seeing how perfectly it all unfolded to lead me here—but man, did I struggle there.

After my first dark night of the soul in Connecticut (see First Dark Night), I broke up with my boyfriend, left my shitty job, and followed my heart to “move.” The problem was—I didn’t know where. You can probably see how this plays out: intuition. I even wrote a blog about it (What Is Intuition?).

So many of us live our lives with a “plan” because it feels safe. And sure, plans are useful—but not when it comes to matters of the heart. My life became one giant risk: consistently taking leaps without a map. I began to realize this is how the heart works—leaping into the unknown.

Intuition is strange. It comes out of nowhere. It rarely makes rational sense. I just followed what felt like the path toward happiness. Of course, it came with immense suffering, because I resisted it the entire way. Metaphorically, it felt like life had massive hands pulling me forward while I dug my feet into the sand—heels scraping raw, bleeding, refusing to go where I was being dragged.

I knew I had to move. Colorado had been on my mind, but so had San Diego. My cousin lived there, and I dreamed of somewhere warm and beautiful. I was still deeply attached to ego desires—I was a swimsuit model, after all, and wanted to live on the beach. Looking back, I can see that San Diego was always temporary, while Colorado felt permanent. But I needed to explore first.

I emphasize knew because I didn’t consciously know. If you had asked me at the time what felt right, I would’ve argued with you. That’s the tricky thing about intuition—you only recognize it in hindsight. Oh… yeah. I knew that. But no worries. You always end up knowing the truth eventually, whether you follow it or not.

California feels like an absolute blur. Was I blacked out the whole time? Where was I? It felt like an eternity and, at the same time, a gust of wind. The beaches were beautiful, I loved the West Coast vibe. I loved seeing people on their skateboards - it was a dream, but it was a dream I had when I was younger, and I was already outgrowing those dreams.

I found a sangha group there, where I was introduced to deep Advaita meditation. It became a cornerstone of my growth—and it’s still the practice I return to today to come home to center. That group felt like family. They were whacky and strange, but I understood them deeply. They loved me even with all my anxieties, and they kept reminding me of presence when I forgot it myself.

I also had another boyfriend by then (after Frank)—someone more “put together.” My family loved him, so I thought I should too, even though deep down I didn’t think I wanted to be in a relationship so fast. I had barely spent any time truly single, yet I rolled straight into another relationship. We attempted long distance for a year, and eventually I couldn’t do it anymore—not because of him, but because I was operating from habit instead of truth. I kept entering relationships simply because someone liked me, without checking in with what I needed or wanted. I hardly knew myself.

In 2021, I began yoga teacher training. We were immersed in breath-work every weekend and spiritual practice. By then, something became very clear: I had to start telling the truth and follow my heart— even if it hurt. When I didn’t, it felt like a dark cloud followed me everywhere.

I ended the relationship abruptly, with a lot of pain during my yoga teacher training- I think it opened up a lot inside me. It was so hard to decide because everything looked—well—perfect. I felt like the woman from Eat, Pray, Love. I finally understood that moment when she realized she didn’t want to be married anymore. It felt sinful to say out loud. I was convinced everyone would hate me. I just wanted to disappear.

At the same time, while trying to enjoy California’s beaches and sunshine, I completely burned myself out. I was teaching seven yoga classes a week, seeing clients, and working at a bar—running on fumes. I remember constantly telling the hostess, “I’m gonna travel one day—just wait,” and I swear everyone thought, here she goes again. Every day I opened the restaurant, bussing tables, wondering what the hell my life was. Burnt out. Broke. Living here.

After about six months of barely spending any time with myself—except the occasional road trip—a boy’s dog ran through my yoga class at the park. We “dated” (or whatever the kids call it now—the talking stage), and then he promptly went on The Bachelorette. I was humiliated because it felt like he pulled me in so hard and then just dropped me suddenly. That was the moment I became sick of myself. High passion, then boom—nothing. Once again, I fell for the illusion that some guy was going to save me from my own pain, wounds, and abandonment, when I promised myself to give it a break.

So I decided to take nearly a year off from romantic connections entirely. I needed to learn how to be alone. That year was good—though mostly filled with work, as rent climbed and bills piled up.

I got into running. Started boxing. Built a routine. I started to solo camp and explore adventures on my own. I even took a trip to Peru (and later Banff) in these 3 years. I wanted to learn hard skills and surviving on my own - I wanted to be with myself. I learned how to backpack, kayak, set up a fire, climb high mountains, and even hiked in water in the Narrows.

Every Saturday after classes, I’d call my best friend Elisha (rest her soul), coffee in hand, and we’d talk for hours. We grew closer than ever. I flew home every October to see her—fall trips, food adventures, deep laughter. It was a beautiful friendship.

Eventually, I started working at a café, where I met “J”—my first female relationship. It was intense, short-lived, and unraveled quickly.

Then came the text.

Elisha’s roommate had reached out that Elisha had died suddenly in a car crash the night before—one week before my annual October trip home to see her. Ten minutes before her death, she had texted me “I just want to let you know how much you mean to me and next week can not come soon enough.” I fell to the ground in the middle of the streets and my life in that moment was about to completely change. She was not only a deep friend that grew on me over the years- but we became soul sisters- Elisha helped me on Earth A LOT. (See Elisha’s Story.)

I fell into the deepest grief of my life. This was the first person that close to me who had died. J and I couldn’t sustain a relationship during that time—it was, to put it lightly, rocky as fuck. She had just gotten out of a seven-year marriage. Elisha had crossed over. Everything was an absolute waking nightmare.

I couldn’t peel myself out of bed. My appetite vanished. My two closest friends checked on me constantly—bringing food, helping with laundry. It was bad. I was white-knuckling every minute of the day. The depression sat deep in my belly, a hollow ache, a knot in my chest. Every morning felt like waking up to survive another unbearable day. I always wondered why grief hurts so deeply in the stomach—it’s like an empty hole.

This led to one of the darkest mental states I’ve ever experienced—again—but worse in many ways. I had zero capacity to survive and yet was trying to maintain San Diego bills, friendships, and relationships. Everything slipped through my hands at once. Just as words can’t fully describe love, they can’t describe hell inside your head. I was in pure survival mode—calling out of work, leaning heavily on friends, becoming a lot to be around. Looking back, I feel awful. I was living on an entirely different plane of reality, unable to comprehend death.

Things kept unraveling. I spent most of my time with J because I needed comfort, which upset my roommates when I neglected my needs at home. I snapped at friends who had shown up for me because I couldn’t afford a birthday dinner. Everything felt like it was falling apart.

I tried so hard to fit into San Diego—but it just wasn’t me. I craved nature—real nature. Quiet. Depth. Stillness. Everything there felt chaotic, and I couldn’t be.

That fall, months earlier, I had applied for a ten-day Vipassana retreat—ten hours of meditation a day, complete silence, no phone, no distractions. I was accepted two weeks before it began.

I was a mess.

My friends were angry that I was going on retreat when I “couldn’t afford anything else.” But it was free—and I needed this. Turned out to be another pivotal moment on the path.
(See Vipassana Retreat.)

The first half was terrifying. My mind looped endlessly on breaking up with J—to the point where I thought I was losing my mind. I just wanted the thoughts to stop. I was unsure if I was experiencing, what they call “ROCD”. It began with Frank when I had that first panic attack and I developed a disorganized attachment style from my parents (constant stages of anxious and avoidant and doubts). My body and mind made relationship my surviving mechanism. I wasn’t loving people for them- I needed them like an addiction. Then when I was in a relationship and had doubts, it would cause such a panic because I had made them my “life line.”

I came out of the retreat completely disregulated. Later, I believe it changed my life—but at the time, I came back closer than I had ever been to not wanting to live anymore. I was scared. Shaken. Every moment felt heavy and meaningless.

I knew something had to change.

Years of repeated burnout had piled up. Elisha had always told me I belonged in the mountains—just like I always said myself. Yet every time my lease ended in San Diego, I stayed for another round. Fear kept winning. My breakdowns got closer and closer together - until the universe (or Elisha on the other side) helped to push me out of San Diego. Eventually everything fell apart so badly, that I left.

For the last two years there, I had quietly made a bucket list:

Hawaii
WWOOFing
Vipassana
Moving to Colorado
Visiting Asia (India, Bali)
Going to grad school

And the strangest thing is that after Elisha passed—after I let go completely—I ended up completing all of it within a year, without the list even in mind. Talk about the power of letting go.

A few days after Vipassana, I was accepted to WWOOF in Hawaii. I had applied “just for fun.” They said yes.

This was my golden ticket out.

I told J I was leaving for Hawaii for a few months—to farm, to live, to breathe. I needed space. I needed nature. Vipassana had made that undeniable.

Some friends stepped away from me. They probably thought I was nuts. I don’t blame them. Looking back, it was all necessary. Even if it was a mistake, it was my mistake to make.

I came home from retreat, sold all my furniture, gave my roommates thirty days’ notice, stored a couple suitcases at a friend’s place, found someone to care for my cat—

—and I left for Hawaii.