The Art of Risk: A Leap of Faith in Love and Life

The Moment Before the Leap

There’s a particular cocktail of emotions that comes with taking a leap of faith—equal parts excitement, fear, and the tiny whisper of “What if?” It’s both paralyzing and addictive, like staring down at the Seine from a Parisian bridge, one foot daring to step closer to the edge. My “what if” moment wasn’t as cinematic as jumping off a bridge (no, thank you). It didn’t involve skydiving or spontaneously buying a plane ticket to Bali either. Instead, it came in the quiet, unsure pause before I did something that, to me, felt wildly reckless: moving to London for love.

If you’d asked any of my friends at the time, most would have bet on me staying firmly planted in Manhattan’s Upper East Side, where I could argue about brushstrokes over cocktails and fall asleep to sirens lullabying me through my penthouse window. My comfort zone was curated, like a tidy gallery wall of impressionist paintings—predictable and familiar. But the heart, I’ve learned, doesn’t give a damn about curation.

The Art Dealer and the Art of Timing

I met Marc—a London-based art dealer—at a summer gallery opening in Provence. As cliché as it sounds, it really was the stuff of romantic comedies set in southern France: peach Bellinis, lingering glances over a canvas I pretended to be fascinated by, and him casually quoting Baudelaire as though that wouldn’t cause my brain to short-circuit.

By the end of the night, we were already swapping email addresses and making grand (read: slightly buzzed) plans to meet again. Still, when the summer ended, it felt like just that—a summer fling. After all, romances born under lavender skies aren’t meant to survive Manhattan winters.

But our correspondence didn’t fade. Emails turned into phone calls, then video chats—conversations stretching hours, spanning time zones. Soon, the distance between Oxfordshire and my beloved New York began to feel smaller—even charming in that way peculiar to long-distance couples who find romance in flight itineraries and countdowns.

One chilly October evening, Marc suggested something audacious. “Why don’t you move to London?” he asked, casually, as if proposing I try switching oat milk brands. At first, I laughed. But by the time I hung up, my heart had already begun assembling a slideshow of what my life might look like on his side of the Atlantic.

Risking the Curated Life

Making the move was anything but simple. To my parents, the idea of tossing aside my meticulously planned Manhattan existence for “some art dealer” (thanks for the subtle disdain, Mom) was borderline treasonous. To my friends, it was a baffling bohemian adventure that didn’t align with my carefully composed narrative.

“I just don’t understand,” said one friend over champagne at The Met’s Members Only Lounge. “You’ve built this dazzling life here—what if it doesn’t work out with him?”

That was the sticking point. What if?

What if it didn’t? What if I traded creamy bagels on Madison Avenue for soggy fish and chips, only to wake up alone in a drafty London flat? What if I realized too late that passion is fleeting, and I’d left behind my home, my career? My pride?

But there was always another “what if” to counter the fears: What if I didn’t try? What if I chose to cling to comfort for the rest of my life and missed the chance to live something extraordinary?

At some point, I realized that the meticulous gallery wall of my “perfect” life had begun to feel more like a cage. There’s an odd kind of bravery required to admit that—even when all the people around you see your life as an enviable masterpiece.

Spoiler Alert: It Was Not a Masterpiece

So I moved. But let me be frank: the transition wasn’t glamorous. London greeted me not with romance, but rain—a continuous, soul-dampening drizzle that soaked my optimism through my Burberry trench coat. I spent my first month missing New York with a ferocity that bordered on melodrama.

Supermarket queues mystified me (why was everyone so disturbingly polite?), and the term “pants” nearly ruined an entire first impression when I nonchalantly remarked that I needed to buy some new ones. Turns out, in Britain, “pants” means underwear. Touché, London.

And Marc? Well, we discovered that living in the same city doesn’t carry the same charm as stolen weekends divided by ocean tides. There were days (and nights) where I wondered if I’d made a mistake—a thought amplified by museum colleagues who didn’t care for my Manhattan-minded ways of forthrightness and spontaneity.

The Art of Restoration: What I Gained

But here’s the thing about leaps of faith: sometimes you land awkwardly, scraping your knees on impact before you can stand up, dust yourself off, and see the horizon.

Through trial and error (and far too much tea), I grew into my new life in London. I began appreciating the city in its own right—not as a polished Times Square sibling, but as something moodier, textured, and infinitely rewarding. I found new friends, pursued tangible dreams familiar and unfamiliar, and even revived something I’d neglected in Manhattan: my love of creating before curating. I started sketching, painting—even dabbling in collage (to disastrous, yet hilariously satisfying results).

And Marc? Well, that chapter didn’t end how I’d imagined. I’ll spare you the poetic details, but suffice it to say, we realized that while romance had taken us this far, we were not meant for the long haul.

Still, I don’t regret a moment of it. Loving Marc taught me volumes about myself, my own capacity to risk, to pivot, to embrace the unfamiliar without letting my curated world crumble under the weight of uncertainty. He was a catalyst, not the conclusion.

The Takeaway: Curate Less, Leap More

The greatest risk I’ve ever taken had less to do with Marc and more to do with allowing myself to let go of the life I thought I should lead. It’s good, sometimes, to leave a blank space on the gallery wall—to resist the urge to fill it with something safe and predictable, to allow the unknown to take up room.

Whether or not you’re planning a cross-continental move (or have a Marc of your own), I’ll leave you with this: risks, even the ones that don’t end with fairy tale endings, have a way of restoring us in unexpected ways.

So here’s my advice, from one hesitant leap-taker to (perhaps) another: don’t be afraid to step beyond the neatly framed expectations others have for you. Sometimes, the brushstrokes get messy—and that’s exactly where the beauty lies.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I suddenly have the urge to rewatch Notting Hill.