migration and comfortable isolation
when you're alone with yourself, do you enjoy the company you keep?
“do you think you’ll ever move back?” my new roommate asked me the day i arrived in Oregon for college.
“no,” i scrunched my nose, “California is so dry and ugly…”
the answer came easily to me. i had just spent 9 hours driving through the center of California and after being surrounded by dead grass, the distinct smell of farmlands, and smoke, there’s a relief that comes with edging closer to the northern border.
when i arrived in Portland mid-July of 2021, i was infatuated. the trees took my breath away, and i was sucked into the summer humidity. it’s the type that lends itself to endless days, electrified hair, and evening walks through sidewalk-less neighborhoods. everything, even time, is soupy and dreamlike. if i could, i would live in the Oregon summer forever.
it’s a little more than a year later, and i’ve just arrived back in Portland for my senior year of college. just last week i sat, eating breakfast at my family home in California. i think of that girl from a year ago and laugh, though not without sympathy. i recall the itchy restlessness, the desire to break free of anything and everything that once defined me in my hometown. after going back for the summer, i see California with a tenderness i was incapable of before.
most mornings for the last few months i’ve been taking walks down the bike path near my house—recently, i’ve been choosing silence over headphones. i walk through the foggy morning air, listen to the birds call to each other, and breathe in the smell of the eucalyptus trees. i found out that the eucalyptus is apparently California’s most hated tree—they catch fire easily, and they’re an invasive species. but their scent is one of my favorites, and it’s one of the things i find myself missing the most about home.
on my walks, i would see my friend—an orange tabby named Lulu—along the trail. i’d pet her and fill up her water bowl if it was low. it was easy to find beauty and comfort in the familiarity of it all.
above all, the most important thing in California is my sitting spot. when i need to write, or read, or cry, i go to my spot. it’s a 30-minute drive from my house, in a place with no service, minimal people, and abundant eucalyptus trees. i park alongside the beach—which is almost always overcast and foggy—and find a quiet spot in the sand. the familiar salty smell of the ocean is home to me. i’ll sit and watch the waves intertwine with each other, the seabirds ducking in and out. this is the closest thing i have to a god.
here in Portland, there is no sitting spot that is comparable. even if it isn’t raining (which is rare), the path through the woods by my house does not have any comfortable logs to rest on. i’ve tried it before. people walk by every few minutes, my butt becomes numb, and rain droplets inevitably start falling. Portland is at least a two-hour drive from the nearest beach, but more than once i’ve felt a tug to just say “fuck it.” to get in my car and make the drive there, despite all the school and work and responsibilities i have to attend to. without the ocean nearby, a part of me is missing.
being here also means coming to terms with being alone. while i have friends here, they aren’t as easily accessible as they are back home. i haven’t known them as long, and i generally find myself more interested in spending my days by myself. it’s definitely a shift, though. after spending all summer surrounded by people, i now have more alone time than i know what to do with.
i’m trying to learn to enjoy my own company again without fearing what other people might be thinking about me. i’m also learning how to make decisions without deferring to anyone else. where i go, what i eat, how i spend the day—these are choices that are, for once, entirely up to me. it is empowering. i am unlearning the conditioning i grew up with, which taught me to put others’ needs above my own, at all times.
i am alone, but i don’t feel lonely. i used to be terrified of not having friends, but more so, looking like i didn’t have friends. this insecurity stemmed from a comment that a boy i once dated made in passing—he said, “this girl i used to date only had like, two friends, which should have been a red flag.” for a very long time after he said this, i put excessive weight on the number of friends i had at any given time out of fear of being seen as a walking red flag.
thankfully i have, for the most part, gotten over this mindset. it’s something that has come with growing more comfortable with myself, but also with valuing my friendships in a different way than i used to. i’m pickier with the people who i allow into my life. i try to view friendships as having the same significance as romantic relationships, which is a concept i came across when reading All About Love by bell hooks. you’re able to appreciate your friends more when you feel like you’re actively choosing them, and vice versa.
moving to Oregon has been one of the best decisions i’ve ever made, despite the distance it puts between me and the people i love most. the two years i get to spend here are precious to me—i know that there probably won’t ever be another time in my life where i get to have this much independence, while simultaneously getting to spend most of my days learning about and discussing topics that actually interest me.
i am thankful for everything Portland has, and continues, to offer me. despite this, Oregon is not my home. i was spoiled with the ocean and warm weather and sunlight for too long—once autumn arrives, i begin to wilt. i can only realistically handle one more winter here, not to mention nine months without a good sitting spot. but i’ll do my best to appreciate the changing seasons and little moments of solitude i find along the way.