“Is this Beverly Hills or a Rom-Com Set?”
Growing up in Beverly Hills comes with its own kind of drama. It’s not the shouty, get-out-of-my-house variety you see on reality TV but rather the kind that seeps in quietly, like the deep, pervasive fear of being seen at the grocery store buying the off-brand sparkling water. There’s an air of movie-set perfection about the place—the palm-lined streets, the immaculate lawns, the perpetual scent of gardenias and ambition. On paper, it reads like a dream. And in so many ways, it was. But loving your hometown is a little like loving a celebrity boyfriend—it’s exciting, sparkly, often surreal, and sometimes makes you question your self-worth.

This is the conflicted space I occupy every time someone asks me what it was like “growing up Beverly Hills.” If you're picturing me gliding through Rodeo Drive, arms weighed down with designer bags, I can only say: I wish. My childhood wasn’t a reboot of “Clueless.” Instead, my Beverly Hills experience was more like an indie dramedy: beautiful locations mixed with existential questions, quirky characters, and not a small degree of imposter syndrome.

The Love Story: Endless Brunches and Oscar-Worthy Sunsets

Let’s start with the good stuff because there’s a lot to love.

You know how people love to call LA fake? They’re not entirely wrong, but there’s a side to Beverly Hills that’s about tradition as much as it’s about trends. My family’s Friday night Shabbat dinners were a kind of grounding routine that balanced out the sparkle of my zip code. My mom would light the candles, we’d say the blessings, and then we’d argue over who had to sit next to my Uncle Joel, who always narrated golf tournaments like they were thrillers.

I treasure those dinners, which gave me a sense of belonging in a city that often feels like it’s made of sandcastles. And honestly, Beverly Hills can spoil you in ways that feel like an Instagram filter applied to your whole life. Coffee is always artisanal. Brunch is practically a religious ritual. And the sunsets? Let’s just say they’re the color palette every influencer wishes they had. Call me corny, but sometimes when the golden hour sunlight hits those palm trees just right, I get all gooey inside.

The Hate Story: Where Validation is a Currency

But let’s talk about the flip side. Living in Beverly Hills often feels like being at a perpetual audition. As a kid, I didn’t realize that growing up here meant inheriting a kind of chronic performance anxiety. Every interaction felt layered with this subtle pressure to impress—even if you were just asking someone to pass the ketchup.

And when you’re surrounded by people whose lives look like magazine spreads, it’s impossibly easy to second-guess your own choices. Did my parents drive an expensive car? Sure. Was it the right expensive car? That’s a question I didn’t know I needed to ask until someone in 10th grade loudly wondered what sort of “plebeian” drives a Lexus. At the time, I shrugged it off; now it’s one of my go-to party anecdotes, proof that actual human beings can sound like rejected characters from “The White Lotus.”

That internalized pressure doesn’t exactly leave you when you grow up. To this day, I catch myself reflexively checking my reflection anytime I walk past a glass storefront, wondering if my lipstick still says, “effortless chic” and not “tired conference attendee.” Dating amplifies it to comedic extremes. I once dated a guy who said my apartment “would be great for someone who doesn’t host dinner parties.” Reader: I dumped him. But not before fretting over whether my throw pillows were sophisticated enough.

The Dating Scene: Beverly Hills vs. the Rest of the World

There’s a particular challenge to dating when you grow up in a place that feels like a perfectly curated Pinterest board. You carry this Beverly Hills tendency to analyze everything—what you wear, how you speak, the vague air of “are we vibing or am I just projecting?” I blame this on growing up around people who made everyday interactions feel like an episode of “Succession,” complete with subtext-laden compliments and occasional power plays.

When I moved out of the area briefly (summer in New York, shoutout to my one-bedroom sublet and its temperamental shower), I realized how hilariously specific my dating hang-ups were. Not everyone cares if you know the difference between an old-fashioned and a Manhattan or whether you got into the “right” yoga studio. In fact, outside of LA, people don’t even care if you don’t do yoga at all. (I’m as shocked as you are.)

Dating in Beverly Hills could feel like a rom-com scene… without the resolution. The coffee date would feature the perfect latte art, but the guy couldn’t tell a decent story. The dinner date might take you somewhere with candles perched on actual crystal, but the conversation would circle back to his “disruptive” startup one too many times. It’s a place that thrives on the surface-level fairy tale, but sometimes that illusion falls apart when you look too closely.

Lessons Learned: How Beverly Hills Broke (and Built) Me

This love/hate relationship with home has taught me more than I ever expected. Growing up in a world so preoccupied with appearances drilled into me the need to dig deeper. Yes, the view was nice, but what was the foundation made of? That instinct has bled into every part of my life, from relationships to career choices to the kind of friend I try to be.

Living in Beverly Hills also taught me the underrated art of self-awareness. Do I sometimes care too much about what other people think? Absolutely. But now I catch myself in those moments and remind myself that the right people (romantically or otherwise) won’t think less of me because my outfit isn’t perfectly curated or because my couch isn’t Restoration Hardware.

Coming Back Home: Sunshine and Perspective

The wild thing is, no matter how conflicted I feel, I keep coming back. Beverly Hills’ charms outlast its quirks. I visit my parents’ home and still light Shabbat candles with them. I walk those streets that struck me as suffocatingly polished at 16 and feel a kind of trickling warmth—like the nostalgia only hits once you’ve got enough distance to appreciate it.

I’ve learned to love Beverly Hills in the same way I’d learn to love an ex who taught me some hard lessons: with acceptance, humor, and just enough skepticism. I’ll always have a soft spot for the sunsets, the brunches, and even Uncle Joel’s golf commentary. And while I might roll my eyes at a few things, the truth is, no matter where I go, Beverly Hills will always be my hometown.

Turns out, love/hate feels a lot like home.