When my friend Summer told me to just pack up, move to Los Angeles, and live the big-city life—well, I did. The garage sale happened the very next day in the sweltering Georgia heat, and soon I was packed and ready to move in with my eccentric Aunt Milly. And though Summer's advice came after several too many drinks, she was the only person at that time who gave me a straight answer about what I should do with my life. Was I meant to stay in Augusta, Georgia, or should I try another state entirely? I had never done it before—and, in fact, no one in my family had either, except for Aunt Milly.
Between coworkers and other friends, the advice was always the same: "Follow your intuition." But it's too late now to ask if this was the right choice. I'm stuck at LAX with two oversized suitcases, gum somehow caught in my brown hair, waiting for Aunt Milly to pick me up.
At first I was nervous, and then, on the plane, I refused to think about the consequences. The air here is lighter, far less humid than in Georgia. People rush about, busy-busy, compared to the slower pace I knew. But if intuition means anything, then right now, yes—I do feel like I made the right choice.