I’m in California now. A few times a week I walk to the beach and sit in awe of the lowering sun—the same one my friends and family watch set hours earlier, the same one people across the globe marvel at from their own stretches of shore. I watch the tide inch forward until it finally sneaks up to my toes, and every time I find myself thinking: How the hell did I get here? What am I doing?

When I break it down, the answer is simple, and spelled out in detail in my past blog posts. 

California is new and vast and beautiful in a way that feels confrontational. There are sun-faded Volkswagen buses tucked along coastal roads, surfers gliding across cold blue water beneath jagged cliffs, eucalyptus trees twisting in the wind, and fog that moves like it has somewhere important to be. There are trails that drop straight into the Pacific, roadside fruit stands, and yes, ridiculous gas prices.

But California isn’t just a new place. It’s inseparable from everything else that’s changing in my life. The move, the landscape, and my career shift arrived all at once, braided together so tightly I can’t always tell which one is rattling me the most.

Coming here meant starting over in every sense. A new environment, a new climate, a new wardrobe, a new group of friends, a new rhythm of living, and a new professional identity. I stepped away from environmental research and into science communication and journalism, a transition that sounds subtle on paper but feels enormous in real life.

Research had structure: clear expectations, defined progress, a sense of certainty. Journalism is the opposite. It’s pitching into the void, freelancing, rejection, self-direction, and learning how to measure success without concrete data. And yet, I love it. I love the curiosity it demands, the storytelling it allows, the way it pushes me to pay attention to the world in a different way. It’s the kind of unpredictability I do well with, but it doesn’t change the reality of this challenging shift.

California amplifies that uncertainty. Everything here feels exposed with the brighter light, louder waves, and bigger cliffs. There’s an unspoken pressure to be interesting, productive, and intentional with your time. To be doing something worthy of being here, all while somehow giving off the impression that you’re a chill kook down to hit the surf whenever the break is working.

Now don’t get me wrong, I enjoy the escape that surfing offers me, but at large I realized I was filling my days and my head with sand.

Clearing Space

Stephen Covey talks about life like a jar. If you fill it first with sand and pebbles—emails, timelines, comparison, productivity anxiety, the pressure to have it all figured out—there’s no room left for the big rocks. The things that actually matter. But if you put the big rocks in first, everything else finds a way to settle around them.

I had a week to settle in before I started pouring the sand straight into the jar—school assignments, never-ending emails, keeping my Google Calendar meticulously neat, and the constant hum of worry beneath it all. Was I making the right career move? Was I working hard enough? Would I have time to see all the things California has to offer? Was I doing it all right?

So over Thanksgiving break, I made a quiet decision to stop filling the jar with sand.

I drove toward Big Sur, away from crowds, timelines, and expectations. I hiked through the woods where viewpoints weren’t as curated and no one stood in line waiting their turn to look. I let myself look a mess. I ate out of the same dirty bowl for every meal. I peed outside without a second thought. I sat beneath a sky crowded with stars, letting my book be the only thing that pulled my attention from them. I cracked my eyes open to watch the sun rise over the waves and gave myself nowhere to be. For once, my attention stayed exactly where I was.

Those days didn’t solve anything. I didn’t come back with a five-year plan or a neatly labeled identity. But I did make room. Room for stillness. For curiosity. For the reminder that being outside, being present, and being okay with not knowing are big rocks, too.

I came to California chasing a possibility. What I’m learning is that possibility isn’t something you cram into every open space. It’s something that shows up when you clear enough room to notice it.

This is more a reminder to myself than anything else, as is all of my “content.” Somehow, the idea that this might never be seen by anyone but my mom feels comforting. There’s freedom in typing what feels true, pairing it with grainy film photos, and hitting submit, sending it out into the expanse of the internet. Part of me enjoys not knowing where it will land, especially as I spend so much time trying to make sense of everything else.