The Leap That Changed Everything

The "Not Right Now" Excuse

You know that thing we tell ourselves when we’re scared out of our minds to make a big move? "Not right now." It’s the Band-Aid line we use to convince ourselves that tomorrow—or maybe next year—will conveniently be the perfect time to go after something daunting. For years, I was fluent in "not right now." Want to take a solo trip somewhere new? Not right now. Want to pitch your creative ideas at work? Ehh, maybe later. Want to…move across the Atlantic alone for five months while fumbling through a second language? Definitely not.

Except one day, "not right now" wasn’t cutting it anymore.

Like every good story of calculated risks, this one starts with doubts. And a lot of arroz con pollo-fueled pep talks from my mamá. A semester abroad in Madrid had been sitting on my bucket list for months, right under “learn bachata” and “stop buying Yankee candles even though you know they’re overpriced." But every excuse rolled through my head at lightning speed: I didn’t want to leave my family. I’d never flown further than a spring break trip to Cancún. And the idea of navigating Spain’s famously late-night dinner culture had me questioning my 6 p.m.-dinner, abuela instincts.

But deep down, the thought of stretching myself beyond Houston—with its comforting familiarity of panaderías and taquerías on every corner—nudged at me. Like a Goya can ready to topple off a stacked pantry shelf, I felt an inner push.

Spoiler: I went. But not without stumbling into plenty of awkward, growth-filled moments that taught me the power of leaping when the ground feels shaky.

The Awkward Art of Starting Over

Moving thousands of miles from home forces a kind of adulting no one adequately warns you about. Like figuring out how to turn on a radiator in your charming-but-cramped European apartment (hint: Google Translate won’t save you here). Or learning that Spaniards look at you like a literal alien when you pour yourself a cup of drip coffee instead of communally sipping espresso.

But let’s be real—what scared me most wasn’t the logistics of living abroad. It was putting myself out there and starting over in a city where no one knew me. Making friends as an adult, especially in another country, feels a little like being a kid trying to join the "cool kids' table" during lunch. Only this time, the cool kids are casually throwing back red wine in tapas bars, and you’re still nervously repeating “dos cañas, por favor.”

I’ve always been more of an observer than a spotlight grabber, the person who listens more than she talks. And suddenly, I was in a place where I couldn’t rely on the reputation I’d built back home as "the one who can always make tamales that actually stay intact." Here, I had to earn my way into conversations—and friendships—with nothing but humor, determination, and a bit of vulnerability.

One night, I accepted an invitation from a classmate to join their group at El Rastro, Madrid’s sprawling street market where you can find everything from antique brooches to random 2000s boy-band memorabilia. I showed up, wearing the most American giveaway possible (read: sneakers), and smiled through my mediocre Spanish. “¿Este sombrero? Muy…elegante,” I blurted, trying to compliment a vendor’s hat. They laughed. But by the end of the night, when we shared churros dipped in thick chocolate, I realized vulnerability wasn’t the liability I’d spent so many years fearing—it was the bridge that connected me to people, quirks and all.

When Faith Meets Fear

The thing about risks is they rarely hand you immediate gratification. As a woman who grew up in a family where taking leaps often meant survival—not just adventure—I knew risk could be messy. My abuelos leapt when they crossed borders for better lives. My mom worked double shifts to leap toward her dream of opening her own shop. Taking faith-filled strides was in my DNA, even when fear whispered, “You don’t belong here.”

One of the scariest—and most rewarding—moments came about two months into my program. I’d been trying to navigate Spain’s rapid-fire banter during journalism workshops when the professor announced a joint partnership with a local radio station. They were looking for stories on immigrants in Madrid.

"Pitch an idea by next week," he said.

Nobody else blinked. Me? My thoughts played out like a telenovela filled with doubt: "You? Pitch…in Spanish? Are you kidding me?” But then I thought about my parents sitting on the couch back home, my dad proudly cracking open a bottle of Jarritos in honor of all my small (and big) wins. I thought about Houston’s East End and the stories that go untold unless someone shines a light on them. So, I gathered every ounce of bravery and explained my pitch idea: an audio series capturing Cuban and Mexican voices adjusting to life in Madrid. My voice didn’t waver—a small miracle.

And somehow, they bought it.

Not only did the project stretch my reporting skills, but it reminded me what a gift it is to be a storyteller—to hear someone’s journey, whether across oceans or simply across cultures, and give it a place to live. By the end of the semester, finishing the series felt less like a résumé booster and more like a kind of redemption for all those nights I stayed quiet, doubting my belonging.

Lessons From the Leap

Taking the leap to pack up my life and move somewhere so unlike Houston—or maybe exactly like it, in its own way—taught me truths I could only learn beyond my comfort zone. Here’s what stayed with me long after:

  • Feeling awkward isn’t a bad thing: Whether I was struggling through half-Spanish, half-English conversations or accidentally buying milk instead of sangria (don’t ask), my missteps pushed me to lean in rather than retreat. Awkward moments taught me how to laugh at myself and go with the flow—a survival skill in both dating and life.
  • The inner voice that says, “Try anyway,” is always worth listening to: Fear’s job is to scream, but bravery? Bravery whispers. Bravery says, “Do it scared.” And usually, doing it scared leads to some pretty unforgettable stuff.
  • Love for others grows when you love yourself enough to risk: Whether it was opening up to strangers or embracing my “not-quite-fluent-but-participating” Spanish, taking risks stretched my heart. Vulnerability pays you back in connection.

Final Takeaway

Whatever decision you’ve been putting off (you know which one), let me just say this: the landing isn’t guaranteed, but the leap? Oh, the leap is always worth it. Whether it’s moving abroad, starting fresh, or braving a new relationship, trust that your story wants to be lived—even if it’s messy, even if you pack the wrong shoes.

You’ve got one wild, precious life, and no, “not right now” doesn’t reserve you a front-row seat to it. So whatever leap you’ve been eyeing, do it scared. Do it awkwardly. But most importantly—just do it already.

And don’t forget to pack a backup pair of sneakers, just in case.