The Weather Inside my Head – Why Paradise is Overrated and Other Uncomfortable Truths
I’ll never forget the first time I traveled to Southern California. I was a young musician in the ’80s, set to open for some prominent artist whose name has been erased from my memory—either by time or by the traumatic realization that they peaked before I did. We flew in with my bandmates, and being as young as we were, half the fun was just being able to travel together without our parents asking where we were going every five minutes.
Then we stepped off the tarmac.
It was sunshine without the scald, and cool breezes without the humidity that makes your shirt cling like a desperate ex. It was an instantaneous mood modifier—a meteorological Prozac. In the amazing sunlight, I was consistently followed by my shadow, who seemed as happy as I was to be there.
As soon as we walked into the pickup area, we spotted rock star Vivian Campbell sitting in his beautifully restored ’69 Jaguar E-Type, with his butt perched atop his collapsed ragtop and rock-and-roll boots casually resting on still-uncracked leather seats. We boldly approached him, driven by delusions of professional networking. He was kind and accommodating to us zit-faced aspiring musicians, perhaps feeling the same euphoria I did in that incomparable weather. He was cool as Dio’s hell.
We stayed with friends who graciously hosted us in their modest but expensive-as-balls 2,500-square-foot home, complete with everything any budding touring musician could need. Well, other than the fact that they had no central heat or air conditioning. None! It wasn’t even installed. The brash confidence that Mother Nature would treat them to 67-to-77-degree temps every single day seemed like atmospheric arrogance—like refusing to carry an umbrella in Seattle because “it might not rain today.” But they won that bet most days.
I’ve traveled to California many times over the years, and my wife and I love it so much, we even keep a place there that we visit several times annually. I’m still genuinely excited to experience the weather that “puts me in a good mood” every time we go, like a lab rat pushing the lever for more cocaine pellets. But here’s the first caveat: we never stay.
Everyone thinks constant sunshine is the dream, but…
As much as I adore the weather there, I also always look forward to returning home to Texas, to experience the 102-degree “crotch-sweat is normal at 7 AM” summers and the 33-degree, sleet-filled, “nobody knows how to drive in this” winters. There are many reasons I love Texas—Tex-Mex, the casual relationship with speed limits, the way strangers wave at each other with a friendly smile—but my realization that seasons play a key role in our human existence is the headline here.
After hearing about someone being chronically depressed while living near the very area where I’d lost my weather virginity, I wondered: If I stayed in my promised land year-round, would I be depressed because I missed home, or because my human nature expects the cosmic drama of actual seasons?
Dude’s Weekend Theory:
I discussed this concept with my 29-year-old son over High West Double-Rye whiskey (because nothing says “deep philosophical conversation” like a good sipper), and he brilliantly drew an emotional parallel to weekends. What makes Friday special? Ever notice how amazing Friday night feels versus how depressing Sunday night can feel? It’s the contrast that creates the magic. Without Monday lurking like a productivity monster, Friday is just…well, another Tuesday with more optimism.
The contrast is everything. Without the dread of Monday morning emails and the existential crisis of setting seventeen alarms you’ll inevitably snooze, Friday loses its power to make you feel like you’ve escaped from corporate prison on weekend furlough.
The Endless Vacation Paradox:
My friend Jake learned this the hard way. He was a hard worker, and he saved for three years to take a month-long vacation to Maui—the kind of trip that makes your coworkers hate you. For the first week, he lived the dream: sleeping until noon, drinking Mai Tais for breakfast, reading novels on the beach like a tropical intellectual.
By week two, he started setting alarms. Not because he had anywhere to be, but because sleeping until 2 PM made him feel like a college freshman during spring break—which sounds great until you remember that college freshmen during spring break are usually idiots questioning their life choices by Thursday.
By week three, he was checking work emails. Not because his boss required it, but because despite another perfect sunset, he was compelled. He actually called me to complain about being bored in paradise, which is like calling to complain that your lottery winnings are too burdensome. I felt so bad for him…not.
“Every day is exactly the same,” he said. “Perfect weather, perfect beach, perfect drinks. It’s like living in a screensaver, but…”
When he finally went home to Ohio in February—where the temperature was a brisk 12 degrees and the sky was painted with seasonal depression—he kissed the tarmac. The misery felt like coming alive again.
The Adversity Appreciation Theory:
The fact is, struggle and perseverance are what make the good times actually good. It applies to all aspects of life. Life’s diversity and unexpected turns for the worse are what make us appreciate the great things life provides. We’re designed to get stronger through adversity—emotional weightlifters building strength and confidence with each heartbreaking dumbbell curl.
The Goldilocks Zone of Misery:
I’m not advocating for pure suffering—that’s just masochism with a philosophy degree. But I’ve learned that the sweet spot of human contentment requires just enough discomfort to make comfort feel earned. Too little adversity and we become spoiled and restless—universally anointed trust fund kids. Yet, too much adversity and we become the ass who keeps a mental score of wrongs, dating back to that kid who cut in the cafeteria line and snagged the last piece of pizza during fourth-grade lunch.
The key is finding that Goldilocks zone of manageable misery—enough to keep you grateful, but not require therapy.
So yes, I’ll keep my little slice of California paradise for visits. But I’ll also keep my Texas summers that make me question my life choices. I’ll embrace the winters that remind me why humans invented central heating and the emotional intelligence to appreciate when the weather doesn’t actively hate me.
Because sometimes the best part of paradise is knowing you can leave it—and that, no matter how miserable it is where you are, there’s a place where 73 degrees and sunny feels like another boring Tuesday in Eden.
Tegan Broadwater is an entrepreneur, author, musician, former undercover officer, podcast host, and positive change-maker. His popular book, “Life in the Fishbowl,” details his two-year, deep undercover operation that took down 51 violent Crip gang members. All profits benefit children of incarcerated parents. Learn more about his latest projects at TeganBroadwater.com