Over Thanksgiving break, my family and I went back to New York City. We were there for a week, and within a few days my life in California began to feel like just a pleasant but faraway dream.

One day during the week my mom and I were walking down Broadway, in our old neighborhood on the Upper West Side.  I felt the cool November wind blow against me, but I refused to zip my jacket, reminding my mom with a kind of pride that “I’m never cold.” As we raced to cross before the light turned red, my mom said to me, “Doesn’t it feel when we are here, it’s like we never left?” I agreed, but then I thought about it a bit more and told her what didn’t feel the same. Now when we are in the city and I see a friend, it feels like a big reunion. That was exciting to me at first, but what I really want is for it to be just as if we saw each other every day.  The big reunions remind me of our separations. And each time, when it is time to leave, it is hard to know it will be a while before I come back.

That being said, when people ask me — as they do often — which home I love more, New York or California, my answer is always: “I honestly don’t know. I love them both.”

In front of my old apartment building

On the beach in Corona del Mar

It is the truth. New York feels like my true home, but now I also feel very comfortable in California. If I had a genie who could grant me one wish, I know exactly what it would be. I would wish that going back and forth between the two would be as simple as passing through a doorway – not flying for six hours and 3,000 miles.

I have come to understand, though, that changing my life is like writing a sequel to a book. You still include pieces from the first book, but you are able to write a whole new story.