Last week, I journeyed out west—not to Santa Fe, but to Los Angeles, where I hadn’t been in almost a decade. It was a whirlwind four-day trip, a blur of memories and moments.
As a New Yorker, LA confuses me. I yearn for a grid, decent sidewalks, and hearty public transportation. I want the streets to be numbered, with every building shoulder-to-shoulder—like a gym adjacent to a boutique dog-accessory store next to a Szechuan restaurant. I don’t drive, and I’m not hot, so I often feel out of place in LA. However, this trip has been special and healing.
Putting literal distance between yourself and your problems can be incredibly helpful. Being physically far away also created some much-needed emotional space. Seeing many old friends and making new ones reminded me how vast the world is, how extensive my support system is, and how many wonderful people I have yet to meet. When you’re stuck in the whirlpool of your own mind, it’s hard to remember all the life happening outside your head. Perhaps it’s my relentless optimism, but right now, the future feels equally exciting and scary.
The trip was planned in the same spontaneous manner that it unfolded. My best friend Mel visited me while I was living at my parents' house, still in shock from not only the affair but the subsequent heartbreak. Mel moved to LA years ago after her own harrowing breakup, and as a bad friend, I hadn’t visited her once. I always thought our next visit was just around the corner, given her frequent trips back to the East Coast. But this was the perfect time to finally see her. As we sat on my parent’s porch, I opened the Delta app on my phone and booked a flight without thinking too hard about it.
A few weeks later, Mel picked me up from LAX. She created a jam-packed itinerary of activities to do and people for me to meet. One of Mel’s best attributes (and she has many) is her talent for connecting people. She seems to know everyone and is an expert at managing her relationships. We wandered through Hollywood Forever Cemetery, dined on vegan food, explored The Broad, and caught a friend’s comedy show. I even got a tattoo in honor of my cat and stayed out until 2 AM—an extraordinary departure from my usual routine. As the plane ascended for my journey home, I noted how peaceful I felt for the first time in a while.
Upon returning to New York, I faced the stark contrast of my own apartment, which had a distinctly “divorced dad aesthetic.” It was the first night I would be spending there, and the loneliness hit hard. Shortly after I set my bags down, I noticed a few roaches scuttling behind the kitchen cabinets. Since then, I’ve seen about a dozen. I either need to befriend them or eliminate them before they unionize.
But as I spend more time alone here, I realize how much I really do enjoy my own company. I am being very intentional around the process of “undoing” by breaking old habits and learning to be more sure of myself. Even last night, I woke up around 4 am to use the bathroom. Out of 13 years of habit, I quietly got out of bed and essentially tiptoed to the toilet before realizing that I live alone now, I’m not going to wake anyone up by walking to the bathroom. I relish in displaying all my stuff just the way I want to. I feel a certain type of freedom in not being surveilled. And typically, I am eating a lot of “girl dinners”.
The theme for this stage of my breakup is "move on before you’re ready." I remember telling my ex weeks ago that my plan was to return to the city ASAP, and he seemed shocked. But what else am I supposed to do? My work and friends are in the city. Am I supposed to wither away on Long Island, mourning a man who discarded 13 years for someone he barely knows? He has taken enough from me—I refuse to let him steal any more of my life force.
God, anyone who mishandles me has terrible taste.
So, I’m trying to spiral upward. Yes, I might have a mental breakdown while attempting to set up Spectrum, but I did manage to get it working. My mind may hyperfixate on my marriage, so I’m processing my feelings by writing about them. I get depressed and force myself to leave the apartment, ending up at the gym, where I generate some endorphins and feel better. I was even asked out on a date this week, and to my own surprise, I said yes… albeit with a fat disclaimer about my situation. Most people are surprised to see how "well" I’m doing, and I am shocked myself—shocked and proud.
Yet, I sometimes wonder if I’m coping in the healthiest way. Aren’t I supposed to be comatose and unable to function? I know we all grieve differently, but I worry I might be unconsciously suppressing my feelings. I’m usually an open book, discussing everything with friends, family, and my therapist. But there’s one person I want to talk to—the very person who caused such destruction in my life. We haven’t spoken in weeks, except through our lawyers, a sentence I can barely comprehend typing even now. That’s actually why I started this Substack: as a way to express what I want to say (well, not everything) to someone who refuses to hear it. It’s my way of releasing some of this internal turmoil, like letting off steam from a pressure cooker, ensuring the sadness doesn’t fester.
april, you are a beautiful writer and i appreciate you sharing your experience of finding yourself. i’m a teenage girl and im going through the same experience in a completely different way, but a lot of the things you’re saying resonate with me deeply. thank you 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻
My ex cheated and refused to talk to me, as well. I eventually learned that the closure I needed was accepting that the closure I “wanted” wasn’t going to be achievable. I didn’t need some mediocre man who hurt me to give me the closure that I was capable of giving to myself. Years later, I am now happily engaged and moving to Long Island, and he is still cycling through girls from our hometown. Your journey is going to be so fulfilling and beautiful, and I can’t wait to keep reading about it, should you wish to continue sharing your captivating writing with us. 🫶🏻