My husband really wanted to go back to Los Angeles for work

In the fall of 2019, my husband sat me in our Hudson Valley kitchen, overlooking our old birch. “I think I should go back to Los Angeles,” he said.

I was only 50 years old, and we had been married for a year. I looked at him as if he had suggested Mars.

“I know,” he said. “But I don’t think there’s enough work.”

He had just finished directing a documentary. He wanted to return to the city where he had lived and worked in the industry for 17 years to see if he could drum up old relationships for new work.

Was it a test? I remained silent while my mind wandered.

LA was never a place where I envisioned myself growing up. I first moved there after college to pursue acting and live with my mogul-wannabe boyfriend. We broke up within a month, and my life became a California cliché: I joined a cult-like spiritual practice with a charming Indian guru.

Although I said that chanting and meditation were very healthy, a year later the merciless rays of the sun rubbed off on my depressed nature and I went back to my hometown of New York City, where I tried to hide under a black wardrobe of California woo-woo.

When I returned to LA to visit, my insecurities stood out like the palm trees on Hollywood Boulevard. After two days, I would start to hate the back of my smile at the restaurant windows. My dark, gray hair kept me warm, while everyone around me was slim, tanned and sexy hot. I’ll rehash the time an agent told me to come back after I lost 15 pounds and how my college friends all got jobs in the industry and seemed to thrive on the Hollywood ethos that made me feel empty.

Moving back to LA as a middle-aged married woman felt like reconnecting with an ex with whom things had ended badly. Has it been long enough to do this? Or will all our “issues” come back together?

Back in my kitchen, my eyes are fixed on the birch, its yellow-brown leaves clinging to its large, broken frame. Its unique beauty drew me to the house I visited years ago with my husband and I. The pros and cons of life in our rural town flashed before me: my hard-earned friends, the long, cold winters, the cheapness and authentic rhythms of seasonal life. I lived here as a single person most of my time. Now I was part of a middle-aged couple. Maybe it was time to adapt.

“Okay,” I said in surprise. “It will be our Courage.”

We decided to give it six months. My writing and consulting work was portable, and there was something right about the idea of ​​me and my husband building a new life together. Even though he’s nine years older than me, his infectious, childlike enthusiasm for making dreams come true has endeared me. We’re not counting on the world shutting down after just one month of moving into the winter of 2020.

At first, LA was a wonderful place to hang out, because we could walk every day in the beautiful sunset, which I no longer thought a bit about the beautiful view of the beach. Our weekly trips to the grocery store included a traffic-free drive down PCH to a less crowded supermarket, with the ocean sparkling to our right. As my East Coast friends complained about the cold in the groom’s chairs, we settled for lunch on the Malibu Cliffs. Soon we saw Angelenos gathering in their backyards to cook with their friends.

Still, it was an epidemic. Even with a daily walk, my body revolts from sitting so much. My bones froze, and I ran around our tiny apartment like Al Pacino playing Richard III. Our dog, who grew up in a country house, barked at every locked door in the apartment complex, driving us and our neighbors crazy. Then, my husband’s mother died alone in a nursing home on the other side of the country. Grief hangs over our lives like a sea layer that obscures Catalina’s vision. I entered menopause, and my new brain fog just added to the fog. some adventure

We have found new ways to cope. We bought used bikes on the Facebook market and started riding bikes everywhere. One day, as I calmly reached the summit of Mar Vista, I saw the ocean behind me and the snow-capped mountains in the distance. The sight managed to take every breath I had left. Despite the torment, I felt joy.

Late in the summer, we went back east to see our family and the house, which some townspeople had rented. But we don’t fit anymore. The charm of the Hudson Valley was dampened by the feeling of wading through a humid 95-degree soup. The clothes and books in our old garage no longer felt like us, and I felt a strange urge to just give them away. The lights and rhythms of LA had me hooked.

When we returned, things began to fall into place. We got the vaccine. We met the neighbors in the yard – the ones who didn’t hate our dogs. We figured out how to sell our property back east and finance one in LA (for our dog). We made good friends with our new neighbors, one of whom is an actor and not the least bit rude. And then, at the farmer’s market, a friendly vendor was talking to another regular about their aches and pains.

“She’s too young to understand,” he nodded to himself. “You spend years before you get to this point.”

I was 54 years old. It looked “beachy old” and I really had a connection.

These days, I see fuchsia patches of bougainvillea instead of my backyard. But LA also brings frustration, financial hardship and the need to face harsh realities. DOGE (or the White House Department of Government Efficiency) cut the budgets of the organizations I work with in my consulting business. And because of COVID-19 and changes in the industry, my husband, a gung-ho about going back, ended up struggling. He is in the midst of a bold and exciting career arc.

This is still our adventure. In middle life, with the right partner and with the self-acceptance of getting older, I no longer feel like the city is closing in on me. We catch each other in this complex phase of life and in this dynamic, complex city. And when things feel hopeless, we step outside our front door and watch the golden light stream through our old California elm.

The author is a writer and leadership consultant with bylines in HuffPost, Oldster, Longreads, Brevity and more. Her first memoir, “This Unforgettable Desire: Finding Myself in an Intimate Culture Experience,” will be published by Heliotrope Books in February.

Further matters The search for romantic love in all its glorious manifestations in the LA area is making history, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 per published article. email [email protected]. You can find delivery instructions here over here. You can find the previous columns over here.