It’s not immediately apparent, but I am a romantic through and through. When I was seven, I wrote in my diary that I was going to live in Boston one day. I was just a kid in Texas–I had never been east, but I had this grand idea of what it meant to be from the northeast. The seven year old in me would be proud that I’m here finally, but now that we’re talking about leaving so soon after arriving, I’m flooded with different emotions. We came here on the tail end of two miscarriages. This was the new start, and I’m not sure how to let that go.

I’ve always felt more grounded after reading historical accounts–I am reminded that no matter how dark things may seem, people who came before me endured so much more and thrived. That is where I find my inspiration. The east has no shortage of history–countless great men and women hail from here, and I can’t deny that walking away from that is hard, so hard. I had fantasies about walking where they walked, breathing the same air, feeling the same zest for change. I grew up in a family that revered the Kennedy family and reviled Reagan politics. To me, Massachusetts embodied the Kennedys and California embodied the Reagans. Now that I am on the cusp of leaving Massachusetts for California, I don’t know what to feel. I had this idealized notion of Cambridge and Boston–they were going to be these charming quintessentially salty New England enclaves. I was going to experience my very first autumn, travel to the neighboring states, visit Cape Cod, go to Canada, settle in for an icy winter with loads of sweaters and tea.

Those ideals are slipping away, and for some reason, I can’t stop crying about it all. First world issues, I know. So much of my identity for so long was built upon coming here and eventually becoming an academic, and honestly, without that, I don’t know my next step. It’s disorienting and scary. I keep flicking back and forth between Berkeley apartments and Cambridge houses, hoping that something will rise up and make itself evident as the clear best choice. We were content with the idea of staying here at least another year, but then we began having the worst time finding a pet friendly apartment. That was disheartening, and made it easy to forget everything I love about this place. We’ve only been here four months, and we weren’t planning to travel during the first trimester, but the apartment search has created a sort of extenuating circumstance. I was disappointed by the muggy weather, but our air conditioner rectified that. There’s no disputing the superior weather of the west, yet I still feel this strong sense of loss without knowing what it is I’ve lost.

While eulogizing his father, Ted Kennedy’s son said that his dad thought Massachusetts was the best place on earth. That’s been on repeat in my head for the last two days, so I finally just watched the eulogy again, bawling through it, of course. This is a place I’ve wanted to be for so long, and while it isn’t the romantic ideal I’d built up, it’s pretty damn remarkable, and I wouldn’t be leaving without a heavy heart.

The first time I visited Boston, it felt so familiar. I knew I could make it a home. I felt the same about Berkeley, but I’ve only spent four hours there. Is that enough time to make this jump? Part of me wants to be impulsive and just go, but the rest of me wonders how much of my heart will break if we do that so quickly.