I’m moving to the west coast in thirty days.
Where will I live? I don’t know. But what I do know is that I’m going to be okay. Everything will be okay. Always. Because it already is.
I trust you, Life.
This is the place from which I choose to operate, because when I do, I become a magnet for the goodness of life and abundance of every form comes my way. Like attracts like. Abundance attracts abundance. I am supported and cared for and divinely guided at all times. Freedom is my birthright and I am free to create anything I wish, unless I choose to believe otherwise. The choice is mine and I choose effortlessly to manifest a loving, spacious, light-filled, pet-friendly, conveniently located and unbelievably affordable Bay Area home that makes me feel good when I step inside of it.
And so it is.
I wrote these words in my journal seven days ago and at that time no part of me believed they were true. I was born and raised in Virginia and I’ve never lived outside of it. Never lived more than an hour or two from both immediate and extended family. The average one bedroom apartment price in Stanford’s surrounding area is more than triple what it is here in southeastern Virginia and the sticker shock is enough to send anyone’s brain spinning into panic-mode. Then take into account the abysmal resident salary, California’s highest-in-the-nation income tax and my six-figure medical school debt (many times over).
Oh, the mental gymnastics I performed trying to make this “work.”
Eventually common sense busted in. “When has this ever actually worked for you?” It yelled down at me curtly. “Controlling and grasping and forcing and worrying…when has it ever manifested anything but absolute horse shit?”
“Never,” I admit to myself defeatedly.
So I started meditating on the idea of being supported and cared for and powerful beyond measure. I started opening myself to the idea that a home exactly as I had written was just sitting there vacant, waiting for me to discover it. That I am an unlimited being receiving from an unlimited source in an unlimited way. That the entire universe is actively conspiring on my behalf and that all I need to do is drop deeper into trust to let it be so.
Eventually my meddling human brain would take over and I’d drop back into a state of sheer panic, but then I’d meditate some more and again it would dissolve. Over and over and over again, I did this.
And then two days ago, I sat down on my computer and got this feeling that maybe I should look on the Stanford Marketplace website for postings. There were dozens and dozens of posts for housing listed each day and none seemed to be even remotely like what I was looking for. I kept scrolling through one disappointing offer after the next and finally said to myself, “Alright, I’ll keep going until I get to April first, after that I’m done.” The very last post listed on April first was one that said “Charming Rose Garden Area home, looking for roommate.”
I clicked it.
And it was fucking beautiful. Three stories, three bedrooms, three baths, professionally decorated, 25 minutes from Stanford. Adjacent to acres and acres of fresh rose flowers. The most stunning home I’d set my eyes on throughout this search. And the asking price was less than half the market price for a shoe box-sized studio.
“Sold, I’m sure of it,” I thought to myself as I typed up an inquiry email. This post was listed almost a month ago and it’s absolute real estate gold. There’s no way it’s still available.
Thirty minutes later I got an email. “I bought the home for my daughter to live in while she’s in grad school. I’ve cc’d her on this email. She’s a sweetheart, you’ll love her. Also, I’m an attending in the PICU at Stanford, I can’t wait to meet you,” it said.
Then another, “Hi Jessica, It’s still available, yes. I’d love to meet you. Are you available tomorrow morning?”
“…Well I’m in still in Virginia, but yes I’m available!”
A phone call later and it’s mine. Ours. I like her already and she’s thrilled about River, excitedly offering to help take care of him while I’m in the hospital, and the home is an absolute dream.
I have to pinch myself, it’s so perfect. And how quickly and easefully it had all come together–like it’d been written in the stars.
And of course it had. I’d written it there myself, after all.
I’d manifested small things before, sure. Plenty of times. When the stakes weren’t so big. But still, never at this rapid of a pace. This jump was so huge and scary that it brought me to my knees sooner and more desperately and it was easier to surrender, because what else could I possibly do? I was already so far out of my comfort zone that I didn’t even know where the reigns were to try and grasp. Sure, I would’ve loved to purchase a shitty shoe box-sized studio apartment in a bad area of town rather than wait patiently in uncertainty for the universe to hand me something more wondrous than I could ever imagine, but I flat out couldn’t afford even that. With nothing at my disposal, I had no tools to control and no choice but to trust that the universe had my back.
What if I were to exercise this kind of trust all the time? Even when I didn’t have to? What if even when I could control the outcome, I just chose not to? What if the more and more I felt panicked, the deeper and deeper I surrendered into trust?
What if you did this, too?
PS. Spoiler alert: This rose garden I now live across from–the San Jose Municipal Rose Garden–will be the very first pop-up studio space for the west coast branch of the heart that beats outside my chest known as Bhav Brigade.
Thank you, thank you thank you, life. Once again, you’ve created for me something so much greater than I ever could have created for myself.