Dear LA, I still believe in you

In the land of dreams, I learned to start over before I knew how to spell my name.

I didn’t grow up in a big house or with tons of money — I moved from apartment to apartment, lived with my grandparents, and shared a bed with my mom and little brother every time we had to start over. And I loved it. I loved starting over with the scent of a freshly painted, empty apartment.

My parents divorced when I was 2 years old, and my mom remarried shortly after meeting the rockstar love of her life and having my little brother. My stepdad was diagnosed with lymphoma, and the doctors told my mom three months into her pregnancy that he would be cured by the time the baby was born. He died six months after she had my brother, and from then on it was always just us three.

Every other weekend, my mom would drive me on the 101 freeway to Hollywood to spend time with my dad. The Capitol Records building stood tall across from the Knickerbocker Hotel, where an emerald green sign read: “FAME IS FLEETING.” I never knew what those words meant at the time, but I found myself hypnotized by them every time we’d rush by — like they were meant for my little eyes to see and wonder about. Now I see, at 24 — in this city, everyone’s chasing the same thing: to be seen, to matter, to become someone others wish they could be.

Those weekends I spent in Hollywood with my dad, he’d take me to Six Flags and we’d sneak in with one ticket. He’d walk through first, then exit through the return gate, freshly stamped. Then he’d press his hand to mine, transferring the ink so I could walk back in with him like we’d never left. It worked every time — and that’s when I realized: in LA, you can make any lie feel true. If you believe hard enough, you can make anything real. I applauded my dad for the things he’d get away with. Then there was my mom, who really played both roles. There was no dishonesty being praised or laughed off. With her, life was serious. And when I’d come home with my hair reeking of five packs of Marlboro Reds, there was nothing to do but give me a shower and wake up Monday morning to take me to school.

Hollywood felt like a different planet. I always associated it with my dad — chaotic, full of surprises, a little dangerous but magnetic. Nothing was ever certain, which made everything feel possible.

The Valley was my mom. Grounded, present, tough in the best way. It smelled like laundry and Bath & Body Works. She was routines and early mornings. With her, I knew what to expect. With him, I never did.

Music was always my favorite toy. My iPod and I were inseparable. My mom buying the entire Adele 21 album on iTunes for $1.99 a song was the biggest adrenaline rush — until my older cousin taught me how to illegally download music using a YouTube converter. Then I became unstoppable.

I feel like you always know when you’re younger what you’re going to be. Dancing and singing were my entire life. Taking that away was the first punishment my mom would give me, and it hurt like hell. Music was in my body. It wasn’t until I was 21 that I picked up an acoustic guitar and taught myself how to play. I’d had one collecting dust in the hallway my whole life. Big Tony gifted me a baby acoustic before he passed, and it sat there waiting for me to finally listen.

Maybe I was afraid that I would’ve done well… and then the pressure would be real. It wouldn’t just live in the imaginative stage I created in my bedroom, where I was safe. There wasn’t one day that changed everything — it was days of failing and getting back up. Failing, and then the universe would give me a new person to guide me. And sometimes, guidance leads you to the wrong places for the right reasons. It led me to addicts, control freaks, charming crooks, drunk wisdom slurred on rooftops, and well-dressed charlatans. I realize now that I wasn’t just meeting people — I was meeting versions of what I could become.

Every time I started over, I met a new version of myself. I learned and unlearned from listening to people who were only guessing.

Everyone’s guessing in music — and maybe that’s the magic of it.

LA always kept me in check. Just when I thought I was good, I’d turn around and feel threatened by someone better. Everyone wanted to be a star. I went to a performing arts school… it was hard to escape people who could dance better, sing stronger, belt higher. But as I got older, I started to understand: we are each one of one. No one else can sound like me. No one else can sound like you.

I lost an earlier start by not stepping out sooner. You never want to look back at your life and wish you had done something. You should just do it to your best ability now. Because time is more valuable than anything, and you will blink and this will be a memory. This isn’t meant to scare you or make you feel guilty… for all the time you’ve wasted scrolling on your phone. This is just to remind you. If you believe in signs, then this is one of them.

Now, when I drive on that same freeway to visit my dad, I look at that glowing sign and see it as an inspiring reminder.

The light still glows, but I see it from a different angle. It doesn’t say “become someone.” It says, “remember who you are.”

Life doesn’t happen to you — life happens for you. And I believe you’ll keep running into the same signs, because that part of you is timeless. It’s always known. There’s a force inside all of us to become the person God intended us to be: abundant.

Abundant (adj.)

Prosperous, rich, and full — not just in material things, but in joy, love, creativity, health, connection, freedom, and the kind of peace that comes from doing what you were born to do.

So tell me… what would abundant look like for you?