One year in Los Angeles.

I didn’t come to Los Angeles because I fell in love.

I dreamt of California for years, but never Los Angeles. When I imagined myself, it was always in San Francisco, though I’d never been. San Francisco’s reputation seemed, to me, mature and cultured, artistic and academic, properly progressive. Yet, when the time came to make a decision, I chose Los Angeles—the last impulsive choice I made in 2021, and as it turns out, the only reasonable one.

I chose Los Angeles, but I’m starting to think Los Angeles also chose me.

Back in October, I went to Colorado for a few days. I’d been craving cooler temps and lush grass and clear mountain water for months, and I expected Colorado would soothe that craving. Maybe I imagined it would feel a bit like home, like the East Coast, a small town filled with autumn’s changing leaves, red brick coffee shops, and college kids roaming the tame streets.

But as soon as I arrived, I wanted to leave. I missed my beloved Los Angeles almost instantly. I missed the buzz and the grunge and the strange aura that permeates the city. And it surprised me. What had changed so suddenly, that I felt such longing for a place that was never supposed to be mine?

Before I made Los Angeles home, I had visited just once before and had tried to resist its pull. It wasn’t hard at first. I remember the drive from the airport took me through what felt like a vast wasteland, sprawling as far as the eye could see in every direction, hazy and hungover. At one point, I passed a green tarp covering a long stretch of chain-link fence around a construction site, a smiley face cut into the fabric—a kind of oxymoron. What was this place, and why did everyone come here?

Los Angeles has been described as where dreams go to die, and initially, it seemed fitting. LA’s ego can certainly get in the way of its potential, everyone clamoring for a spot in the limelight (not the sun; it’s not nearly bright enough, and besides, it’s everywhere). But for each self-important persona pursuing fame, there are two genuine souls with heartfelt passion for whatever it is that gets them up in the morning, doing it for the love of it, day after day.

It’s a city of experimentalists, more than it is of dreamers or explorers (it’s not romantic or quaint enough for any of that); all of us making our way through the languid, gritty landscape with the hope of bringing something meaningful to life. The beautiful, the absurd, the subversive. Here, it’s hardly rare to know someone who is juggling three or four creative projects at once, each unlike the other.

There is an anonymity to it all, too, which I didn’t know I needed. There are more people in this county alone than in entire states across the country. Somehow, that’s comforting. A humbling reminder of the beauty of being human. I love that while there are regulars to the streets I walk and the coffee shops I frequent, there are always new faces to take in, new experiences to uncover. None of it is permanent—things here disappear as quickly as they emerge, which can be disheartening and charming all at once. Change is something I’ve always craved, and I’m given it here; freely and without shame.

And yet, I’ve found a sense of belonging I haven’t felt anywhere else. Not because I fit in, but because none of us really do, and that’s kind of the point. Sure, we can joke about the different tropes of Los Angeles transplants and their respective neighborhoods—but LA is just as much a haven for freaks and geeks as it is for socialites and swindlers. It’s one of the few places in America where people can aspire to be weird, and no one bats an eye. Despite its bad rap for being superficial and shallow (and there are pockets of this, rest assured) what you see on TV isn’t always what you get. I’ve met people of more depth here than I ever expected.

It seems contradictory, that a city built for those seeking self-actualization could somehow result in a place where community abounds. But it does. For the first time in my life, I’m growing an honest-to-goodness group of friends, every one of them whip smart and witty and creative and wonderful. I’m learning more about myself through each of them, through our conversations and encounters—it turns out I know almost nothing about film, or music, or museums, but gosh am I eager to know it all. I’m discovering my interest in subjects I’d never considered before, and stepping into my queerness in ways that feel tender and right and timely.

A lot has developed for me in a short period of time, and when I look back on this year, it all makes sense. It’s just pieces falling into place. I have a strange little cat named Sylvia Plath. I’m dating women, without hesitation now. I host salons with my dear friend, where we talk about things like the Western canon and sex-positive feminism and collectivism vs. individualism. I’m going to puppet theatres and taking live figure sculpting classes and wearing Converse on a daily basis. I got a tattoo, and am soon to get another. I’m reading Eve Babitz and listening to Marxist podcasts and sketching lamp designs with my best friend. And I’m writing a new book.

I went into this year hoping I’d figure it all out and of course I haven’t. But what I have found is invaluable, and I know I couldn’t have gained any of it without Los Angeles. They say LA rubs off on you, and perhaps that’s true—or maybe it’s just that LA lets you finally step into who you really are.

I didn’t come to Los Angeles because I fell in love. But fuck if I’m not in love with it now.