The Pre-Move Chronicles

We haven’t even moved yet and I’m already emotionally unpacking and repacking like it’s an Olympic sport. I’m buzzing with a chaotic mix of hope, stress, and delusion. (So basically… normal.)

Trying to find a place to live in California feels like being cast in a reality show I didn’t audition for. Every listing is its own little drama: some terrifying, some kinda cute, most wildly overpriced. And occasionally, you get the magical horror combo of both. The places we can maybe afford? They’re miles away from everyone we love. And the ones near our people? You better believe they come with rent that’ll have you considering whether kidneys really need to come in pairs.

We’re looking anywhere from LAX to Long Beach to Compton, because that keeps us closer to family and my school. It’s that sweet (slightly chaotic) middle zone that makes life a little more livable, a little more spontaneous—like rolling up for Sunday dinner or boba with zero planning and max vibes.

And after weeks of scrolling listings like it’s a competitive sport (seriously, someone give me a Zillow medal), we finally have two showings lined up tomorrow! TWO. Places that could maybe, possibly, become our next short-term home. I’m trying to stay chill about it, but I’m also mentally arranging furniture and naming plants. Balance.

Of course, if neither of these showings works out?
We’ll just keep trying.
(And maybe cry a little in the parking lot, but then—keep trying.)

Also—let’s talk about the six-month lease trend. When did that become a thing?? That’s part of the reason we’re leaving our current spot. It’s hard to feel grounded when you’re constantly in limbo, packing up your life every few months like a nomadic Sims character. I just want somewhere cozy enough to notice which corner catches the morning light or which floorboard creaks when it rains. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently, not only do I need to accept short-term leases—but now I’m supposed to pay over $2,000 a month and bring my own appliances?? Be so serious. If I’m paying that much, the place better come with a fridge AND a stove/oven. That is my bare minimum. My hill to die on. Paying luxury prices and then being told to BYOF (bring your own fridge) is wild. Scam behavior!

We’re not even looking for perfect—we just want functional. Livable. Preferably somewhere I don’t need to take three freeways to get to work. (But if I do, I guess I’ll stock up on snacks and start romanticizing the commute like it’s a coming-of-age montage.)

And yes, I’ve started packing even though we have no clue where we’re going yet. Just a few boxes. Nervous energy boxes. But the junk drawer? She’s not coming. That’s one thing I can control.

It’s just… a lot. The searching, the spreadsheets, the “do we stretch the budget for this one?” conversations. Sometimes, adulting in California feels like playing emotional Monopoly, except every space says “Pay Rent” and I keep landing on “Appliances Not Included.”

But we’re still in it. Still hopeful. Still whispering “please be the one” to blurry Craigslist photos. Something will work out. Something always does.

And if you’re also in the middle of the search, somewhere between burnout and bubble wrap—I see you. May we both find a space with decent lighting, good energy, and a fridge already installed.