
Everyone knows what people say. That change is good. It makes life interesting. Keeps us guessing.
It was a Friday night, in June of 2000. I was at a wedding in St. Louis. My cousin Mike was getting married, and it was a fun O'Brien party—lots of laughs, dancing and, yes, wine.
After my second glass, I leaned over to Molly, my cousin who was a year behind me in school and had just graduated from KU, and asked her what she was planning to do now.
With a huge grin, she announced that she was moving to Chicago in August and couldn't wait to get to the big city. She'd been to Chicago many times before, and loved the energy and the opportunities there.
I sat quietly, and then, somewhat jokingly said, "Can I come?"
She thought I meant for a visit.
I meant to live there, too.
Laughing it off, as one would do to someone who'd made such a wild request, she said, "Of course!"
She was moving here to live with her high school friend Shannon and her college friend Jill. They were going to find an apartment, find jobs and find out who they really were, post-graduation.
At the time, I was working in Atlanta, had an apartment in Buckhead with two girls from college, and had a pretty good life. Tons of friends, a great social calendar, and the sort of familiar routine that comes with living in the city where you'd grown up. I knew that Trivia was on Tuesdays, where we'd be on Friday nights, that Athens for the Saturday games was just an hour away.
I was comfortable with my choices, but somehow just felt bored. Unfulfilled. Strangely, and unknowingly, dissatisfied that I'd done the expected. Moved to Atlanta after college. Ran with the same crowd, did the same activities and talked about the same things as everyone else whom I'd known for most of my life.
I was itching for a change.
Taking a long, slow sip of my wine, I leaned back over to Molly, and shouted over the band's lead singer, "No, I'm serious. What if I moved there with you?"
She looked at me like I was crazy. At first. Then a slow smile spread across her face. And, she told me to get another glass of wine. She didn't believe I was serious.
A few glasses later, I was that much more positive that a move from Atlanta was just what I needed to shake things up. By the following morning, the idea had done more than just plant a seed in my head—it had blossomed into a whole tree of possibility.
I asked her again what her plans were. Desperate for a few more specifics. She laughed—was I really serious? I'd never even been to Chicago.
By Sunday evening, when I was on the plane home with my parents and sister, I said to them, casually but loaded with meaning, "What would you guys say if I said I wanted to move to Chicago with Molly?"
They looked at me like I was crazy, or joking, and then realized I was dead serious. They said, almost together, that they'd support my decision. If I were serious.
Which, clearly I was. On Monday at work, I Googled Chicago. Perused through the images of the city, the parks, the lake, the surrounding areas. Checked it out on a map. Read reviews of the city, and checked out the comparisons to Atlanta—cost of living, demographics, population, etc.
When my phone rang later that day, and it was Molly, she asked me a pretty big question. She said, "On Wednesday, my Mom, Shannon and I are driving up to Chicago to look at apartments. Are we looking for a three bedroom or a four bedroom??"
I sat, covering the receiver with my hand, at my desk at work and answered the question that would change the course of the next decade, and likely the rest, of my life.
"A four bedroom. I'm in."
They called me from Chicago on Wednesday and told me about the apartments they'd seen. One especially great one on Clark Street in a place called Lincoln Park. It had four bedrooms, two bathrooms, a huge deck, a large overhead skylight and great views of the street down below. And, four guys living next door.
With my approval, and that of Jill's, who was home in Minnesota, they got a copy of the lease and read me the details over the phone. By Friday, I signed my portion of the lease and faxed it in to the management company. I'd been to the bank, gotten a certified check for the deposit, and it was a done deal. I bought a city book on Chicago, earmarked the pages, places and things I wanted to see, and began to search for jobs in my future town.
Seven days that completely changed my life.
My lease wasn't up in Atlanta until September, so I knew I had a few months to ride it out. Over the course of the next 60-75 days, I sold my car, gave notice at work and hired/trained my replacement, bought a new winter coat, applied for jobs, updated my resume and began packing up my life.
My friends held a great going-away party for me, and I cried as I said my goodbyes to those that I'd known for months, years and most of my life. As the taxi pulled away from the party, I didn't question my decision, but silently prayed I'd be happy. I cried all the way home.
When I landed in Chicago for a short "interview/get acquainted visit," I immediately loved the city. So much life! Energy! So many people! High-rises! Such a gorgeous lake, park, Navy Pier! As the cab rounded the curve at Oak Street Beach, I knew that I'd made the right decision.
I was 23, almost 24, and I just knew.
This change would do me good.
Nine+ years later, I have to admit. That decision paid off. Four jobs, three apartments, loads of old and new friends, many loves gained and lost, and lots of memories later, I am still here. I thought two years would be enough to "get it out of my system" but that's just it.
This change, this move to Chicago, was probably just what my system needed.
Apparently I don't do things halfway.
A bit like the Hokey Pokey, either I'm in or I'm out.
And, this time, the change was a little less overwhelming, and yet dramatic all the same.
Last weekend, I dyed my hair. DARK. I've always been the tall blonde. My hair, while gradually going darker over the years, has always been blonde. My eyebrows have always been darker than my hair (that's the O'Brien thing, I got it from my mom's side) and my stylist has been trying to convince me to do it for years.
So, I did.
And, you can see the proof of the process below.








I still give myself a bit of a start every time I look in the mirror, and I haven't recognized my reflection as I walked past a window just yet, but I think it's growing on me.
Change is good. It keeps thing interesting. And, if that last picture is any indication, I will grow to like the spunky new brunette me. Until I get used to it, I'll just fake it.
That's what I did in Chicago—while I loved it right away, I didn't feel like I fit in right away. It took time to get comfortable. I didn't call it home immediately, and now I can't imagine living anywhere else.
I guess that's what change is. A risk, a gamble and a giant step forward into the unknown.
With a bit of an attitude to boot.
Right?















