What’s Wrong With Nashville? Everyone Is So Happy Here

This article is part of Upstream, The Daily Wire’s new home for culture and lifestyle. Real human insight and human stories — from our featured writers to you.

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Hi, my name is Lauren, and I’m a Los Angeles refugee living in Nashville. It’s been 31 days since I left my apartment on Hollywood Boulevard, where I carried my dog over hypodermic needles and human feces; reported a makeshift meth-lab Jeep on the corner; huddled on the floor of my kitchen during a lunchtime police standoff with an armed, barricaded neighbor; evacuated my apartment because of wildfires; paid $50 for two tacos and a skinny marg; gave another driver the finger while listening to a mindfulness meditation; was called a “pedo” for not honking in support of a No Kings protest; and was unsuccessful at landing a “good morning” response from the guy who walked his black lab past me every day, for six years, completely ignoring my existence.

After downing enough juice cleanses and kale salads to scrub my body of all internal organs, I began to hear rumors of people in other cities living fully realized lives. When I finally summoned the courage to leave the safety of my five-mile-wide bubble to explore these alleged civilizations, I landed in Music City. Immediately, I realized something was off about the place: People were smiling. I made it my mission to find out exactly what they were on. 

Admittedly, the LA talent pool is straight outta Central Casting, but I’m pretty sure one out of every two people in Los Angeles is mentally deranged. (It’s not their fault — they’ve been shopping lame script ideas to anyone who will listen for 47 years.) I befriended a few brilliant diamonds in the rough, but much of the Hollywood crowd was indistinguishable from the life-size, animatronic zombies on seasonal display at Rock & Roll Ralphs on Sunset Boulevard. Was the half-dead creature awkwardly twitching to “Monster Mash” on sale for $99.99 or shopping for corn flakes? It’s hard to say.

But who am I to judge? I was a shell of a human, too, struggle-bussing it through my slightest-shred-of-kindness-brings-me-to-tears era. When the garbage collector paused to let my dog sniff the grass before grabbing a nearby trash bin with the truck’s monster claw, I waved to him like one of us was going off to war. The time an elderly man held onto my arm to steady himself on the sidewalk, my heart turned to warm mush in my chest. And the parking enforcement officer who didn’t ticket me for accidentally parking at a broken meter? We almost eloped on the spot.

LA’s famous good weather belies the dark cloud coming from the locals. I’d like to offer California the award for outstanding performance by a state taking a royal dump on the best weather in America. Its quality of life, like the 1980s mullet, is fine up front and 100% dumpster fire in the back. Perhaps this dichotomy was best illustrated by the time I saw a tourist take a photo of her Erewhon “Hailey Bieber” smoothie against the part of the sky that was blue while apocalyptic black clouds from the Palisades fire billowed miles into the atmosphere out of frame. By that point, I had already uncovered the righteous irony of “we’re in this together” during the pandemic in a city where next-door neighbors remain lifelong strangers. But a $24 smoothie puts a gilded frame around the insanity. 

On a bad day, I liked to think I lived in a mecca for the entitled jerks of other cities (you know, everyone who ever fell for “OMG, are you a model?”). When they were alone in their hometowns, their friends and family kept their egos in check, but assembled in the wild, with the practiced inexpressiveness of the Kardashian-Jenners, their powers aligned to form a narcissist nightmare. On a good day, I lived among those same people, but with, like, fun, puffy clouds.

Meanwhile, back in the normal-sphere, Nashville, Tennessee, ranked 96th on the worldwide Happy City Index in 2025. Based on my scientific research (wondering why everyone makes eye contact and says “hello”), Nashvillians totally live up to the hype. Couples walk hand-in-hand. Kids can be heard laughing on playgrounds. Bartenders and baristas actually seem to enjoy interacting with customers. People enjoy long walks in the park and non-obsessive exercising. Even a teen death metal band playing a song called “Purgatory” at a dive bar breaks into easy smiles when the singer’s older sister makes them pose for a post-show pic. 

Nashville was voted America’s favorite city in 2025, clearly getting the memo on joy-maxxing and spreading the good news. You could say it’s the no state income tax, booming job market, A-plus schools, or lively music-scene lifestyle, but everyone’s clearly high on life. 

As Tennessee gains followers, California’s star gradually dims. Residents (the billionaires and the dollar-aires, like me and my musician boyfriend), have been fleeing the state in record numbers. A hefty 216,000 people left in 2025. I quickly discovered that U-Haul moving truck rentals cost at least $2,000 more to leave the Golden State versus moving in. I still left.

I’ve met lots of former Californians in Nashville, and I do run into the occasional expat who reminisces about LA weather. I struggle to drum up enthusiasm for the sunshine and succulents when it feels like standing over someone’s great aunt’s funeral casket, marveling at how her makeup gives her a healthy glow. Or like telling Andy Dufresne in “Shawshank Redemption” to crawl back through the escape hatch behind his Raquel Welch poster and once again tuck himself into bed in his prison cell. It’s too soon to reminisce about the weather — for me, anyway.

A grocery cashier in my East Nashville neighborhood noticed my boyfriend’s California ID and joked that she felt lucky to be hanging out with movie stars. (Does everyone here work on tips?) “Well, welcome!” she said.

“Thank you. It’s better here,” we blurted out after just days in our new apartment.

“You know, sometimes you’ll see Brad Pitt around here,” she said with a wink.

I spent 15 years working as an actor in commercials, film, and TV in Los Angeles — with a food delivery side hustle for wealthy clients. I saw A-listers on set, on the street, and in their jammies on their million-dollar doorsteps. (Stephen Tyler will never not look like someone’s fun aunt to me. And I swear Bruce Willis promised me his vintage red muscle car.) This woman glowed with the kind of unjaded sweetness that LA almost hammered out of my soul. I felt the misty eyes coming on.

I’m sure I’ll miss glamorously swishy palm trees against pink moon skies, the smell of blooming jasmine on the warm breeze, and my good friends bravely holding down the fort. But as I bask in the glorious aura of people living their best lives, I’m grateful I got out before I was completely consumed. Let Tennessee weather be the crazy lottery that it is. It’s Nashville’s happy world, and I’m just living in it. 

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The views expressed in this piece are those of the author and do not necessarily represent those of The Daily Wire.