“I Moved to L.A. and Hate It—Am I a Quitter If I Move Back?”

Molly Guy, creative director of Stone Fox Bride, responds to queries about relationships, love, weddings, and everything in between. Send your questions to dearmolly@stonefoxbride.com.

Dear Molly,

I’m about to turn 31, and so far 30 has been the toughest year of my life. I moved to Los Angeles last year after living in New York for eight years. I made the move for many reasons, none of which being that I actually wanted to leave New York. Brief background: I used to work in fashion and quit to learn/pursue screenwriting. Toward the end of my fashion career, I was really hating the city. Then I got my groove back, Stella-style, and was more than happy to stay in NYC with my finance day job (great pay plus great hours) and my screenwriting (which really nourished me creatively, even though I hadn’t exactly gone pro yet). Between 2014 and 2016, I dated, traveled, and lived more than I ever did while slogging away in fashion. But I didn’t feel like I was legit, and it was weird to go from having a cool, envy-inducing career to having a random day job while I chased a dream that I’m sure most people thought was of the pipe variety. I was actually kind of embarrassed, even though I was happy.

Cut to spring 2016, and I had my heart shattered by a friend who I started dating long-distance. That, in addition to an offer of a buyout for my rent-stabilized apartment and the need to feel legitimate in my screenwriting/entertainment career, meant I finally made the move to L.A. in June 2016. It’s been a year and I fucking hate it. I work for what can only be described as a nightmare cliché of a Hollywood film producer, and something feels so utterly wrong about living here. I’m an East Coast girl, and I miss my friends and family more than ever. I would feel like a quitter leaving L.A., and making another cross-country move would not be fun, but I am so confused as to what to do. Do I stay here and try to make it work, or move back to a place I know I love? Is one year enough to give a place like L.A. a chance? Would I have had a different experience if I hadn’t come here so heartbroken, or if the election hadn’t crippled me with anxiety every damn day? (That’s a whole different email.) I feel like I’m going through so much, sans support system, and the “great weather” just isn’t cutting it. For the first time in my life, I uttered the words I never thought I’d say: I miss winter.

Dear “I Miss Winter,”

Isn’t not feeling legit completely crazy-making? It’s enough to drive you, well, from job to job, or coast to coast. Everyone wants to feel like the real deal. Especially in the industries in which you work. Film and fashion tend to attract folks who are inherently insecure in their skin—who think beauty and facade and fame is the answer to their existential angst. God forbid you should feel, even for a minute, like you have no idea what you’re doing! Funny how we’re taught that vulnerability is for the weak, when, in fact, it’s just the opposite.

Sounds like, Miss Winter, that no matter where you are, you think it’s not where you should be. Your cool fashion job was cool enough, but the city that surrounded you sucked. Your finance day job was not super cool, but the perks that it afforded you were. Still, you felt stuck and self-conscious, concerned about other people’s perceptions. The devil has you right where he wants you when you’re consumed with yourself. Why think about substantial ways you could contribute to the culture when you could instead be obsessed with your low-vibrational, low-chakral urges—getting the bigger thing, the better thing—anywhere but here?

Is it possible that the problem is not the job or the city or the boyfriend? That it’s the unbearable discomfort of being present in your own life, in your own choices, even when you’re unsure of where they’re taking you? Is it possible that in waiting to feel legitimate you are actually missing out on the most legitimate part of this entire process, the fact that you’re searching and seeking and sorting out who you are and what you want? Leaning into uncertainty is the best thing you can do for your art. The unknown with all its dark and dirty and dazzling gifts is like a glittery psychic petri dish of crystals and gems where creativity thrives.

Listen, if you miss winter, come back to New York, where it’s grimy and cold and slushy; where the snow is bitter and unrelenting, even on the first day of spring. But once you’re back in the city, stay in the city. Once you decide on a job, don’t quit it because you’re self-conscious about being insecure. Make friends with those feelings. Your stories and screenplays will thank you.

(And when that “ah-ha” moment of inspiration strikes, don’t forget that you’ve still got to wake up the next day and make your bed and brush your teeth. “After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water,” my mom says.)

FYI: Los Angeles is never the answer, although I fully understand the appeal. What New Yorker hasn’t stared at that vintage pic of Joan Didion leaning against her Corvette Stingray in front of her Hollywood home—all middle part and messy hair and sandals, slick with ennui—and thought that everything would be better on the Best Coast? There’s a bumper sticker that says, “No Matter Where You Go, There You Are.” I try to remember this myself, late at night when I’m panicked about the state of my fate. New York, New Mexico, California, Kansas City, Sri Lanka . . . regardless of how deep into the woods we wander, everyone still sleeps and wakes beneath the same sun and moon.

Here’s another bumper sticker-ism for you. “The only way out is through.” My father, stricken with blood cancer and feeble from chemo, uttered those words in the ICU a few days before he died. We all end up there one day, too—sitting in a small, quiet room alone with our head and our heart and our hands and our soul, facing the stars and the dark. Don’t miss out on your life because you’re walking around the world wondering if you’re doing it right. The fact that you’re doing it at all is a miracle. You’re legitimate because you are. That is the end of the sentence.