When I was nine, I told my mom I’d never leave La Jolla. “Why would I?” I reasoned, gesturing at the sparkling waves beyond our living room window like a child-queen surveying her kingdom. “We live in paradise.” My mom, ever the pragmatic marine biologist, chuckled and said, “Paradise isn’t perfect, Jules.” I didn’t know what she meant back then, but now, decades later, I get it. My love-hate relationship with this postcard-perfect seaside town is complicated. Kind of like being head-over-heels for someone who still uses Comic Sans unironically.
Let’s dive in, shall we?
Love: The Beaches That Raised Me
Growing up in La Jolla means the beach isn’t just a place—it’s your babysitter, therapist, gym, and sometimes your stage for an impromptu photoshoot. My weekends revolved around tide pools, where I’d poke at anemones while my mom gave me mini-lectures about intertidal zones. That childhood wonder stuck with me; later, while interning in Hawaiʻi, I found myself nerding out over coral polyps in what felt like an extended love letter to La Jolla’s rocky shores.
The ocean taught me lessons nothing else could. I learned that low tide reveals hidden treasures, but you have to get your hands wet to find them. I learned patience by waiting for just the right wave when I first tried to surf (and by “surf," I mean flailed like an overturned turtle). And I learned, thanks to a rogue seagull, that being pooped on is less about bad luck and more about how quickly you can laugh at yourself.
Of course, this deep connection to the ocean was a blessing when it came to dating. One time, a guy tried to impress me with a half-baked tangent about “how the moon controls the tides,” and I just smiled and nodded because correcting him would feel a bit like kicking a puppy. (Pro tip: If you’re dating someone from a coastal town, brush up on your marine facts—or at least don’t confuse a seal with a sea lion. It’s painful to watch.)
Hate: The Bubble Effect
But here’s the thing about La Jolla: while it’s a wonderful place to live, it can also feel a bit like living in a vacation brochure. And just like no one wants to ride It’s A Small World eight times in a row, paradise can become stifling when it feels like all you ever do.
There’s a certain sameness to it all: brunch at George’s, sunset yoga, yet another art fair on Prospect Street. Sure, #coastalliving looks great on Instagram, but it’s hard to break free from the curated perfection. Growing up, I longed for something grittier, somewhere the air didn’t permanently smell like eucalyptus and expensive sunscreen. I wanted adventure. I wanted heartbreak. I wanted...a non-organic cheeseburger every once in a while without fear of being judged by kale evangelists.
That bubble mentality extends to relationships, too. La Jolla is small, and dating in your hometown inevitably feels like playing seven degrees of Kevin Bacon, except replace Kevin Bacon with your first-grade classmate. It’s all cute surfer dudes until you find out they dated your best friend’s sister or, worse, were your middle school partner in cotillion. Yeah, that’s a hard no.
Love: The Familiarity Factor
And yet, there’s comfort in knowing a place so well. When I came back to La Jolla after those six months in Hawaiʻi, it was like snuggling into a well-worn hoodie. I immediately knew my favorite coffee shop (shoutout to Bird Rock Coffee Roasters) and the best bluff for sitting and contemplating life. That kind of intimacy with a place is rare. La Jolla feels like that person in your life who always remembers your Starbucks order—even when you temporarily switch to oat milk.
This familiarity also taught me something surprising: love doesn’t always come with fireworks or grand gestures. Sometimes it’s the steady tide rather than the crashing wave. La Jolla raised me to appreciate the quiet joys, like the tiny sparkles that appear in the sand on moonlit nights. It’s a lesson I’ve carried into my relationships: recognize and treasure the little moments of magic.
Hate: The Expectations Trap
However, growing up in a picturesque town can give you a skewed sense of reality. When your backdrop looks like the set of a Nancy Meyers movie, it’s easy to think life should always be perfectly lit and choreographed. Spoiler alert: it’s not. I’ll never forget my first major breakup; I ugly-cried on a bench at Windansea Beach while a tourist couple snapped selfies nearby. Nothing takes the romance out of heartbreak quite like overhearing, “Honey, try and get the waves in the background!”
This gap between expectations and reality taught me to rewrite the script for myself. La Jolla may look like a rom-com destination, but my life isn’t directed by Nora Ephron. And that’s fine. Real relationships—and real life—are messy and occasionally involve eating takeout alone while watching reruns of Parks and Recreation. The point is, I had to stop measuring myself (and my relationships) against some idealized version of happiness. Spoiler: it’s wildly freeing.
Finding Balance: Loving the Imperfection
At the end of the day, I’ve made peace with the fact that La Jolla, like any relationship, isn’t perfect. But what is, really? This town will always be the backdrop to my most formative memories and the place that first taught me to love the ocean, myself, and, ultimately, the people who share those waves with me.
If we treated cities like we treat relationships—acknowledging their flaws while celebrating their beauty—we’d be a lot happier. So yes, the parking situation in La Jolla is maddening, and the culture can be insular. But it’s also the place where early-morning surfers call each other “brah” with zero irony, and where the sunsets are so mind-blowingly beautiful no one bothers reaching for their phones because a photo wouldn’t do it justice.
If I’ve learned anything, it’s that love, whether for a place or a person, isn’t about ignoring the imperfections. It’s about leaning into them and realizing they’re part of what makes the whole thing worth sticking around for. Turns out, Mom was right—paradise isn’t perfect. But my corner of it? I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
