On breaking up up with San Francisco

When we met, I was only 21 years old. I didn’t know it yet, but you were about to reconstruct me into a archetypal kale-eating, yoga-practicing adult. I knew I would work in tech, but I didn’t know I’d spend 6 more years in the field. I didn’t know that I’d soon care about things like where my food came from, my carbon footprint, feminism, and National Parks. I certainly had very little clue that the city was about to go through an enormous tech boom.

When we first met, I didn’t know the words “kombucha,” “mindfulness,” “kale,” “arugala,” “trikonasana,” or “ridesharing.” I didn’t have any money. I thought meditation, acupuncture, and other alternative practices were for crazy liberal people. I had one IRL San Francisco friend. I drove a 2002 Chevrolet Cavalier, which was packed to the brim upon my arrival. (I’d send it to retirement only three months later.)

After a heartbreak two years later, I thought it might be time for me to break up with you too. I was giving all my love to you, but it didn’t feel like you were loving me back. My friends were moving to more affordable cities. I still didn’t have any money. (Damn you, student loans.)

Because I didn’t know what else to do, I spent three more years creating more memories with you, evolving, knowing that there was certainly an expiration date on this relationship. I told myself that I’d know when the time is right.

I finally knew it was time to break up when I realized that I was spending every weekend trying to escape. The streets got noisier, the tech bros became more insufferable, the brunch seemed more expensive, and the summer nights got chillier.

After I broke the news, the days got a little sunnier, the people got a little friendlier, and the streets got a little cleaner.

And although I almost wanted to get back together, I knew it was time for us to both move on. I still love you, but I have to let you go. I hope we can stay lifelong friends.