I’ve been living there for almost three months now. I miss the ocean more than I thought I would, but I’ve eaten hot chicken, two-stepped, listened to incredible live music, drank whiskey in smoky bars, and have met so many talented, motivated, creative young people who are beyond inspiring. The nights are filled with the sound of crickets in the trees, the leaves are changing with the season, and I cannot wait to break out my winter coat for the first time in years.
The genuine Southern hospitality of this city has been overwhelming. I’ve heard the phrase “Welcome to Nashville!” enthusiastically spoken from every single person who finds out that I just moved to town. I’ve been taken in with open arms and have become completely enchanted by the city's charm. Most importantly, I live in a house that has central air conditioning.
But why exactly did I leave San Diego? I'll break it down.
My job was ruining my health
Writing about food for a living certainly has its perks, but fitness is not one of them. As a food writer, no chef invites you into their restaurant to taste the amazing new salad they just put on the menu. My meals frequently included multi-course dinners full of rich, delicious foods wrapped in bacon, covered in cream sauces, and packed with calories, and none was complete without tasting the entire new cocktail program or having a craft beer pairing with each course. This wasn’t just a once in a while occurrence. Sometimes this was several days a week and sometimes more than once in a day. The result was more weight gained than I’ll ever admit to and hangovers on more days than not. Even though I was working out regularly, my 30-something body just couldn’t keep up with the gluttonous lifestyle I was forcing it to follow. I felt unhealthy, lethargic, and physically completely miserable. Something had to give and I didn’t want it to be the button on my pants.