Spending several months fretting about how I was going to raise a child in Los Angeles on my own, I made the rash decision to move to Charlottesville, Virginia. I had never even visited, but had a few friends who lived there, and it sounded like the perfect place for my small family of two. Plus, I was done with Hollywood.
Leaving LA life behind
I had spent a solid decade establishing myself in the entertainment industry, and I had come so far. But the swanky parties and pretty people no longer felt important. The more pregnant I became, the more I sought normalcy and stability, and it wasn’t going to happen where I was. I felt like Steve Martin in LA Story, sitting at dinner parties at restaurants with names like Gjelina (pronounced Jaleena), listening to meaningless babble about the hottest yoga instructors, juice cleanses and plastic surgeons, while wearing ridiculously expensive heels, and wishing I was somewhere else (like home, on my couch, alone).
It also depressed me when I saw friends raising children in Los Angeles; the cost of living is insane. Couples with two incomes can barely afford to live in a decent home in a crappy neighborhood, let alone pay for private schools in a city where public education doesn't include music or art classes, and teachers are being laid off every year by the hundreds. How would I hack it on my own? I never imagined bringing up a child like that, struggling to make ends meet.
And let’s face it, after years of dating Peter Pan types like Jason, who I hadn’t spoken to since the day I told him I was pregnant with his child, I couldn’t imagine meeting a guy honorable enough to be the father of my baby.