Moving to Raleigh after 23 Years in LA
And the identity crisis that followed
While on vacation last week, every time someone asked me where we were from, I launched into my entire life story. I can't seem to just say, "Raleigh," even though we've lived there for two years now.
The minute the words start tumbling out—too long, too much justification—I cringe. It sounds like I'm still mourning a life I chose to leave.
Some cities stamp themselves on you. New York, of course. LA, for sure. They're not just places you live—they're declarations. I am here. I am doing things.
When the wildfires hit LA earlier this year, the editor of my tiny hometown paper messaged to see if we were okay. The same guy who once put me on the front page alongside my celebrity client back when I did PR for A-list talent. I told him we'd just moved back to North Carolina.
His reply landed like a punch: "I can't imagine making it out of NC and having to move back. At least you're in Raleigh, which I guess is okay."
It stings when someone says the thing you feared most. Am I a failure because I moved back? Even though technically, we didn’t move back because I’ve never lived in the Triangle. I grew up close to Charlotte.
What I didn't tell him is that we didn't have to come back. We chose to.
For family—my mom alone after my stepdad died in 2019 (Alzheimer's), my dad now showing signs of the same disease (brutal).
For sanity—Covid had reshaped LA into something fractured and unfamiliar. Our favorite places had closed, crime was up, the homeless crisis worsening. Even our close friends were scattering to various places from the city we'd all once claimed as our own.
(These are the reminders I offer myself when regret tries to sneak in.)
The version I miss isn't the one we left behind. I miss the LA of my twenties and thirties—a grand time, a golden age. As Hollywood assistants, we ran that town. I had my pulse on every restaurant opening, pop-up, secret bar with no name, and award season party. We knew where to go to see Paris or Lindsay or Leo on any given weeknight, but pretended to be chill about it. We knew the back entrances, the best parking hacks, the chefs by name. It wasn’t just living there—it was belonging there.
Now, when we visit, it feels exactly like Nora Ephron described leaving New York in her memoir, I Feel Bad About My Neck:
“Whenever you give up an apartment in New York and move to another city, New York turns into the worst version of itself. Someone I know once wisely said that the expression "It's a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there" is completely wrong where New York is concerned; the opposite is true. New York is a very livable city. But when you move away and become a vistor, the city seems to turn against you. It's much more expensive (because you need to eat all your meals out and pay for a place to sleep) and much more unfriendly. Things change in New York; things change all the time. You don't mind this when you live here; when you live here, it's part of the caffeinated romance to this city that never sleeps. But when you move away, your experience change as a betrayal. You walk up Third Avenue planning to buy a brownie at a bakery you've always been loyal to, and the bakery's gone. Your dry cleaner move to Florida; your dentist retires; the lady who made the pies on West Fourth Street vanishes; the maitre d' at P.J. Clarke's quits, and you realize you're going to have to start from scratch tipping your way into the heart of the cold, chic young woman now at the down. You've turned your back from only a moment, and suddenly everything's different.You were an insider, a native, a subway traveler, a purveyor of inside tips into the good stuff, and now you're just another frequent flyer… You realize you're going to have to start from scratch… and you will never manage to vault over [the wall] and get back into the city again."
That's the heartbreak of moving on. You lose the right to your old life, and you don't yet feel fully at home in your new one.
But Raleigh continues to surprise me. I found a tribe—creative, smart, supportive women who show up, who say yes. I started a cookbook club. They actually came.
Maybe that's the point. For years, I let a location define me—the creative electricity of LA, the cachet of a place that sounds good when you drop it into conversation.
Now, in this quieter chapter, I have to be someone who stands on her own. No shortcuts. No instant credibility. No borrowed glow. Just me.
Maybe that's not a failure at all. Maybe it's what reinvention actually looks like—not glamorous, but grounded. Not flashy, but freer.
This essay is part of my ongoing series about reinvention. If it resonated with you, I'd be grateful if you'd share it with someone navigating their own life transition.
And if you're curious about what happens next—how I'm building an identity beyond zip codes, finding community in unexpected places, and discovering what actually matters in this next chapter—please subscribe.
Oh, and did I forget to mention? This is also a space for FUN. After some challenging years, I'm reclaiming joy through travel adventures (and reviving a part of myself that used to live on my blog The Sought After), spontaneous experiences, and rediscovering joy. Think of this as your permission slip to prioritize pleasure again. I hope you’ll join me!