April 20 marked seven years of me, a California native, a 24-year denizen of San Francisco, picking up and moving a few of my physical possessions and all of my emotional baggage across the country. No job. No apartment. Just a sort-of-kind-of sufficient amount in the savings account, my best friend and her couch, and the deep, undeniable sense that I had to leave San Francisco right then or I never would.