Two months ago I moved from San Francisco to Chicago. This confuses many of my new fellow Midwestern residents.

“Why would anyone leave for California for this place?” 

“Have you been through a winter here?”

“That’s funny. I’m trying to do the reverse.”

These were among the reactions over the past eight weeks when I say where I’m from. Some people stay quiet, but their disdain oozes through raised eyebrows and shaking heads. It’s been everyone, too, from my new coworkers to the clerk at the liquor store when I show my California ID.

This move was a major life decision. I spent a little over 10 years in the Bay Area. I was born and raised in Denver, and upon college graduation, I took a job as a reporter for a small local paper in Gilroy, about 80 miles south of San Francisco. I had no idea how long I’d be there. I think my original plan was to move back to Denver at some point.

But you know how it is. You meet people, you plant roots. Maybe have a kid. You get to know the bars, cafes, things to do on a rainy day. Months become years and after awhile, I glanced behind me and there stood a decade.

San Francisco is a magical city full of nooks and crannies and alleyways and corners where many random things happen. It has colorful people and beautiful stories, such wonderful, endless stories. That city is one giant story.

But it didn’t want me. Or that’s how I felt. I couldn’t afford it, for one thing. It also just got on my nerves. Not really the weather so much, a string of foggy 60-degree days, but the claustrophobia that’s a result of what’s actually smart urban planning.

In San Francisco, you walk. Because you can. Markets, movie theaters, flowers shops, bookstores are almost always a short stroll away. The city has done a lot over the past few years to encourage residents to give up their cars. They’ve created dedicated bike lanes on several major thoroughfares. They’ve allowed cafes to take over curbside parking to build terraces for dining al fresco.

So there’s a lot of people, all the time, competing for space. Space in elementary schools, space in the lanes at the supermarket, space to park their cars. What parking there is costs money. Everything costs money. Forget about rent. Wherever you live, I’m sure you know that rent in San Francisco is, to quote today’s youth culture, “beyond.” It’s comical to me now, because I’ve moved on. And in that sense, moving on has been a luxury.

I now rent a single-family for $500 more a month than what I paid in San Francisco for a “garden level” (basement) apartment. The house is double the square the footage. It has a big front yard and back yard. It has two sets of stairs. It has a basement. It has three bedrooms, not two. It has two bathrooms, not one. It has a covered garage, not just street parking. Although it has plenty of that too. It’s in a safe, quiet neighborhood brimming with mature trees and paths to ride a bike.

Parking at work is free. Parking at the grocery store is free. The roads are wider, their potholes have been re-paved. The local community centers, libraries and public schools are excellent, beautiful and modern. I’m 20 minutes from a cosmopolitan city that’s a rich matrix of history, evident in the aged brick, the stone, the world-class architecture that towers over you at every turn. The food. The drinks. The music. And yes, the deep-dish pizza.

There’s winter. I know. I know. It gets cold, and cold as fuck. I get it. “No, you don’t,” they all say. They inform me that I might be from Colorado, but that state’s cold season is milder. “You’ll see,” I’ve been warned. “Just wait.”

So I’m waiting. And in the meantime, I’m enjoying a spectacular summer. A summer in which I can swim in an outdoor pool at 6:30pm on a Monday and it’s 85 degrees. I eat strawberry popsicles and drink cold spiked lemonade and leave the windows and doors open all day every weekend. I wear shorts, flip-flops. I don’t have to bring a sweater if I’ll be out past 8pm. The sun heats the days, the pavement, the tar. On some days, I brush hair off my eyebrows and it sticks to my forehead. This is summer in Chicago.

And then it will be fall. The leaves will change, and gloriously. Slowly sunsets will begin earlier. People will come home earlier. They buy some hot cocoa, maybe a new set of mugs.

So, here I am. I live in the Midwest. Sometimes I can’t quite believe it. Sometimes, when the sky is dark and the thunder loud, I wonder if I’m a West Coast girl at heart. But I have my reasons for being here now, however long “now” will last, and those reasons belong to me.

I’ve learned several things during the process of moving and adjusting to a new place. One is this: If someone talks with you about their major life decision, greet them with understanding. It’s OK – it’s good – to ask questions, to want to know more. But don’t answer with obvious disapproval. Be curious. Be empathetic. Or simply just be nice. Because by talking with you about something so big, they’re showing you a piece of who they are.