Moving to Cincinnati

What happened when we left LA for a new life in the midwest

Deciding to leave Los Angeles was one thing. Actually leaving was another.

I got shingles. I was in a minor car accident. The day we left, we hit a blizzard in Arizona. It felt like we were ripping ourselves thread-by-thread from the quilt of our lives in L.A.

We arrived in Cincinnati on March 11, 2023. Before pulling up to the house we’d rented from friends, we stopped at a nearby forest preserve. Piling out of the car with our dog Spinelli, we ran like banshees screaming through the early spring mud, letting loose our road-trip legs. We played and leapt and raced around like children. We cupped our hands against trees and whispered hopes for our new life here.

In those first weeks, I remember sitting by the fireplace in our empty house and watching the snow falling outside. So much tree and sky and space. It was like taking a deep breath.

While I was happy to be in Cincinnati, my body clung to the stress I’d carried for the past several years. In the months that followed, all that deep, tangled-up tension fought its way out. I started to twitch uncontrollably. I’d google “twitching finger lip what cause” and the internet told me not to worry unless my tongue twitched, which was a symptom of something awful.

A few days later, my tongue started twitching. I freaked out, convinced I had a degenerative disease. But the doctor said it was stress, just like my shingles. I believed her, and the twitches faded away like the final aftershocks of an earthquake.

I felt a new steadiness. Good things happened. We bought the adorable three-bedroom house we’d been renting. The mortgage was less than half our rent in L.A. And Jack got a great job, which meant I could focus on making books. That felt, and still feels, like such a gift.

We received the kindest welcome. Old friends and new neighbors brought over food, cards and flowers. Acquaintances from visits here became weekly hangs. We met fellow artists, joining an enthusiastic creative community. When someone releases a zine or plays a show, people show up to support it.

(Tip-of-the-iceberg list of Cincinnati artists you should know: Julia Lipovsky, Joe Walsh, Evan Verrilli, Daniel Iroh, Lyric Morris-Latchaw (who just moved away but still counts), Carol Tyler, Jill Cleary, SKT Ceramics, Ellina Chetverikova, Cryptogram Ink, Cereal Box Studios. Also, did you know the bands WHY? and The National are from here?)

In a massive city like Los Angeles, I’d sometimes meet someone for a second or third time, reintroduce myself, and still not be remembered.

Cincinnati is much smaller. The first time I reintroduced myself to someone I’d previously met, she said, “I know, I remember you.” It made me oddly happy—small pond, fewer fish.

How else is Cincinnati different? L.A.’s billboards are for TV shows, movies and plastic surgery; Cincinnati’s are for fast food, manipulative anti-abortion ads and cremation services. L.A. is a wealthier city with a housing crisis; Cincinnati is a poorer city with a housing crisis. L.A. is liberal, Cincinnati is a purple city in a red state.

Once my stress-twitching stopped and our first summer here was underway, I came back to life. Remember in COVID when people stopped polluting the ocean for a while and the coral reefs started coming back? That was me after settling into Cincinnati.

We’d tried for a baby back in L.A. Each time I got my period, I was devastated. I wanted so badly to be a mom, and had insisted we try even though we weren’t really financially stable enough to support a kid and if we had been pregnant we might’ve said, “welp, better move to Cincinnati.”

When I told Jack I was pregnant in July of 2023, I remember him saying “The timing is perfect!” Suddenly I was glad it hadn’t happened a moment sooner. We had to move across the country to feel ready to welcome a baby – or two babies, as it turned out – into our lives.

It’s not that L.A. is bad and Cincinnati is good. I love both of these beautiful and imperfect cities. It’s just that in Cincinnati I’ve been able to find what I need right now. More rest, more quiet, more time.

As I wrote last week, I used to be obsessed with dreaming big. My vision boards were full of directives like WRITE A BESTSELLER and BECOME A MILLIONAIRE.

Now, I don’t dream of a different, better life. I love my life as it is. My vision board for 2025 features a woman sleeping, a comfy-looking bed, a cup of tea, some flowers. There aren’t all-caps commands but quiet phrases, dream on earth and experimenting with writing life. I hung the collage in my office. I need the daily reminder of these new priorities because, of course, desperate ambition still beckons.

But when l have the impulse to stay up all night, to run myself into the ground, I look at my vision board and consider taking a nap instead.