A question that stuck with me for days after the two times I’ve visited LA: should I move here?

While I was in LA, I experienced this question as a certainty. I belonged in LA. Everything about it fundamentally nourished me: from the sun to the coffeeshops where no one was in a rush, where people called each other by their name and healthy options were the default rather than something you had to seek out. Plus, there was Abbot Kinney Boulevard and Erewhon’s breakfast burritos and the palm-lined streets and a generally carefree attitude that made it a delight to simply live. Mundane activities, like crossing the street, were a pleasure.

Even the selection at Buck Mason, one of my favorite stores, seemed so much more diverse and tasteful than the one in New York.

Both times in LA, I felt lighter: physically and mentally. I could run along the beach in Santa Monica longer than I ever have in my life, then roll my pants up and walk into the ocean. At the time, the feeling of cold ocean water on hot skin felt better than anything I’d done in New York. I felt like a dehydrated plant that suddenly got just the right amount of water. Being near the beach, walking in the sunset, and breathing in the salty ocean air for a short few days were cleansing and invigorating and almost spiritual.

I love the sea, and have tried to maintain some connection to it over the years. When I moved out solo for the first time, I carefully selected my tiny walkup apartment near Carl Schurz park (which faces the East River), so I could have the opportunity to sit by the water and clear my head. Now, living in a tiny Midtown studio, I continue to take almost-daily walks by the East River, along the new promenade that stretches from 54th Street to the Upper East side.

But the East River, let’s be honest, is a pathetic replacement for the roaring and generous waves of the Pacific, and there is no filter for the incessant sounds of ambulances, firetrucks, and aggressive honks that seep into your pores whenever you leave home (or stay in, for that matter).

New York days are filled with struggle and hustle, even if you don’t have a crazy work schedule—which you inevitably get sucked into. You will be motivated to work and get ahead and work and work and work, because that’s what everyone else does and where you get your worth.

Winter in the city is just cold enough to get you fatigued and ugly, never enough for the full-fledged coziness of a White Christmas. Summer is unbearable, with the humid heat trapped amid the buildings, garbage smells, and sweat you can’t escape from. Central Park, with its wide open spaces, provides no relief from the scorching heat. What starts out as a pleasant picnic ends in a desperate quest for the air conditioner.

Speaking of seasons, spring never comes. A few beautiful days that tease you with the prospect of sunshine and warmth (just right!), then back to endless stretches of gray and chills—the pits of wardrobe ambiguity, un-anticipated colds, and disgustingly sticky, warm rain.

Now, very much settled back in New York, I’m trying to decipher whether the sudden aliveness in LA was me finding a long-buried truth, or a flight of fancy that stemmed from a few sun-soaked days after 11 exhausting years in the city.

It’s hard to tell. Because New York strips your soul with difficulty, traffic, bad weather, and insanely expensive everything, but it also gives back. A lot.

The weather is not a match for LA, but, despite the aforementioned comment about success-ism, there is the sense that anyone can find their people. I could go out wearing pajamas, boudoir, or a clown outfit, and there is a place where this self-expression would be celebrated. And I probably wouldn’t have to look too far to find it.

There is diversity in New York, as opposed to the one-dimensional beauty of LA. There’s celebration (somewhere) for all looks, shapes, sizes, and interests. I could be into knitting and pottery, or bondage and polyamory, and I would have a home. If I just wanted to sit and have a coffee, living a completely isolated existence, I could do that too. New York lets you feel as connected or private as you want, enveloping you with its energy.

This acceptance and diversity is also exactly why, if I were to have a kid one day, I would want to have them in New York. Life is multi-dimensional here. Instead of the polished comfort of a suburban home and plastic-surgery ideals of beauty, there is the opportunity to experience a myriad of settings and get into contact with people from all walks of life. Whether it’s the actually educational setting of a museum or theater, an elegant restaurant, or a gritty corner that teaches you not to be an idiot, there is everything here.

The lack of an accessible beach will always be a void for me. But there’s everything else, and more. There’s my happy place Nitehawk, Sotheby’s and MoMa, yoga studios and the friendships they bring, and sunrise by the East River. There’s the odd day I spend walking around, completely relaxed, in SoHo or Williamsburg, sipping a coffee and flipping through books. There’s the view out of my window with tall apartments and lights glowing within that gives me a deep sense of home and peace and security. There’s Woodstock and Beacon and Montauk. And the nightlife, which extend far beyond the 2am curfew of LA.

There are the friends I’ve made, coming close to a decade. I would have said they’re the family away from home but that would be false, because New York is my home.

Stockholm Syndrome? Perhaps. But New York, I do love you and I can never leave.