Head West
A story about trusting the progression of your life.
May 29, 2014.
We were in the rental car, pulling off from the townhouse we’d called home for the last 4 years. Suburban Atlanta life was ending and amidst our boxes and suitcases were resentments, anger, and uncertainty. “Why the fcuk am I doing this??” That was all I could think to myself. It was a Thursday; my daughter had graduated from HS that previous Monday, and it’d been evident for months that not only did she have zero interest in moving to California, she was dreading it. We’d moved to Atlanta from the Bronx right as she was turning 7, so this was home for her.
She was angry with me. And as we drove out of the subdivision for the last time, both in tears, a song came on the radio.
“I know a place where the grass is always greener.” - California Girls by Katy Perry
If you know the song, you’re familiar with its idyllic depiction of the West Coast as a shangri-la of sorts, but this felt like anything but. My daughter was spending 2 weeks with family while I arrived in California, found an apartment, and got settled. Whatever that meant. It turned out to mean signing a lease, turning on cable, getting a mattress from a discount store on Foothill Blvd, eating plain M&Ms for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and crying. Lots of crying. I’d given away the peace of my life as I’d known it, and for what?
I’ve always been an adventurer of sorts; someone who’d go places and imagine what a life there would be like, so it was no wonder that after being introduced to the Bay by way of a brief dating situation, moving here was of interest to me (even with the dating situation no longer a factor). But imagining something and engaging in a series of plans to make it a reality are two absolutely different things. I set my mind to accomplish something, put in the work to do it, and made it happen.
But what happens if you actually get what you want? I hadn’t considered what would come after that.
With every purchase of something for my new apartment, I got significantly more depressed. It was further proof that I wasn't going home. Work was an escape, a place I could turn off feelings and focus on tasks (a behavior I’m actively trying to unlearn). I learned how to stuff my own emotions to deal with my daughter’s, her depression even more pronounced because she felt she’d been whisked off into choices she didn’t make or want. It would take years for our relationship to recover. Over the next 24-36 months, I moved from an adamant stance of “as soon as my lease ends I’m outta here,” to “give it 6 more months,” and then a year, and so on. Despite her acceptance to CSUEB, my daughter withdrew her admission and returned to Georgia for school for the next 18 months. I honestly was glad to be free of managing two people’s grief, but terrified at the same time. I had no family here and very little community. I’d be alone, for real.
“What if something happens to me? Who’d be looking for me here?”
No one. Ok, maybe my job. But no one else. It was my first time living alone. Ever. Motherhood at 20 years old means discovering adulthood with a simultaneous label and responsibility. Who was I when I wasn’t this person? I’d soon find out.
Discovering the anonymity of street running in a place where no one knows you was more freeing than I’d imagined. Festivals, markets, movie theaters, restaurants. It’s when I started to fall in love with the solace of my own company in public spaces, observing and feeling the energy of places. I laugh looking back at so many experiences I had alone in Oakland where today I’d know everyone there. It was like sitting within a life you’d soon have, but don’t have yet, and don’t know is coming. My loneliness assuaged by the sweet black kitten I adopted on a whim from Oakland Animal Shelter one random Saturday, I started venturing out further, and actually making an effort to be friendly.
By this time, my daughter was ready to give California another try; just in time, because that out of state tuition was kicking my ass. I was jumping for joy, right?? Kind of. I’d gotten used to living alone, eating out, having “spennanight company,” and such things. Another adjustment. We’d each lived separately, and coming back together was hard. It was 2017 by now, and the next three and a half years between us were tumultuous. She struck out for Georgia next in late 2020, and I was alone again.
And this time it was glorious.
I went from Hayward to my beautifully lofted townhouse in Oakland, jokingly dubbed “The Belly Townhouse” by the person I was dating at the time due to its super high ceilings and vast white wall space, similar to Keisha and Tommy’s house in the hood classic. I moved in January 2021, and KayInTheBay (a name I’d long suffered under during my time online dating) and The As Told By Podcast were born in 2022.
And when my daughter moved back home for an 18 month stint in 2023 to acclimate to motherhood with the kind of support only your mom can provide, she met a whole new version of me. Friends. People. Places. Things. Sneakers everywhere. She was looking for the mother she’d known.
Instead, she found Kahja. A version of me I owe to the Bay. Happy Caliversary to me.
Kahja Elliott is a digital creator, food enthusiast/traveler, and podcaster in Oakland, CA.
Thank you for sharing such a raw, beautiful piece. Really resonated with me, made me think of several key relocations in my life. And gives me some good food for thought as we explore the best current location of our little family.