“There’s no way this works out,” I whispered to myself while staring at the waves, a tear in my wetsuit and a pit in my stomach. On that early July day, I was standing on the shore of Tofino, clutching a borrowed surfboard and questioning every choice that got me here. The sea stretched out in front of me, full of promise—or danger, depending on how you looked at it. Behind me? My comfort zone, more a lazy beanbag chair than a safety net.

But let me backtrack. This wasn’t about surfing, at least not entirely. It was about a dare I had written myself into—a mental Post-It note plastered over the buzzkill thought-loop of “play it safe, keep it small.” This was a leap of faith I had desperately needed.

The Comfort Cocoon (Or, How I Almost Stayed Stuck Forever)

For most of my life, I’ve played things adorably safe. Risk? Never heard of her. I grew up sandwiched between two immigrant parents who championed practicality and stability—they ran their café with clockwork precision, like a sitcom family business where everything stayed neatly predictable from episode to episode.

And while that nurtured me in a hundred beautiful ways, it also made risk feel more like a villain than a teacher. Why leap when you can stay firmly on land, right? My years post-college? Very much an extension of this mindset. I dipped my toes into creative writing, sure, but not without keeping a “real” job to anchor me. Love? Let’s just say I’d perfected the art of liking people who were emotionally unavailable. (Risk-free crushes, anyone?)

Enter: the Tofino summer. A place renowned for its kelp forests, surfer hangouts, and good ol' West Coast mentality of “let’s vibe, then see what happens.” My decision to spend a few months there was partially inspired by friends nagging me to get outside the city bubble and partially by Pinterest boards of beach sunsets.

But selfishly, I hoped for real transformation. Not Instagram-worthy, yoga-by-ocean stuff, but something raw and soul-shaking. My plan? To learn how to surf—and, through some wild cosmic osmosis, “become one with taking the leap.”

Wiping Out the Fear

About twenty minutes into my first lesson, I began to regret this plan. Just standing on wobbly seafoam felt less like becoming one with anything and more like slapstick comedy. My instructor, a chill dude named Ash who looked like he subsisted entirely on smoothie bowls, could barely hide his amusement. I was tangled in my wetsuit and frantic, drenched by even the tamest waves. I had all the grace of a baby giraffe trying to roller skate.

The fear wasn’t just physical. If anything, falling off the board was easy compared to wrestling the anxiety happening internally. Who did I think I was? Some Eat-Pray-Love knockoff? Surfing was harder than it looked, and just attempting it felt massive—especially since failing meant doing it all in front of a beach full of strangers.

But here’s the thing no one tells you about surfing until you’re in it: Every wipeout is essentially permission to mess up again. And again. After my fifteenth swallow of salty Pacific water, something clicked: I wasn’t here to win. It wasn’t about immediate triumph but about showing up scared and seeing what would happen.

When the Wave Finally Comes

Spoiler alert: I didn’t become a professional surfer that summer. But I’ll tell you about the first wave I actually rode, shakily, like a toddler inching down a waterslide. It wasn’t much—seven seconds, tops—but afterward, I threw my hands in the air like I had just won Olympic gold.

Here’s the cool part. The joy came not from having surfed well, but from realizing the biggest risk wasn’t about balancing on the board. It’d been the decision to try at all. That same leap-of-salty-faith moment cracked something open in my brain—a reminder that “risk” isn’t a monster at the door, but simply a sign you’ve stepped into something bigger than yourself.

Translating My Wipeouts to Real Life

Now, you might be thinking: “Okay, but Willow, I don’t surf.” Totally fair. You might hate oceans, or maybe you’re more of a hike-and-log-off person. The essence of what I learned that summer, though, holds up across every context—be it relationships, careers, personal growth, or whatever your secret heartlonging might be.

Because here’s the thing: When you let yourself leap without the perfect plan, wild things can happen, including things you never would’ve anticipated. Like, let’s say, deciding to push for love with someone who doesn’t already fit your tidy, pre-approved checklist. Or messing up at something you love but walking away knowing you gave it your all.

Here’s where you start if you’re feeling stuck:
- Accept the wipeouts. Whether it’s rejection, failure, or a face full of salt water, those moments aren’t death sentences. They’re part of the process.
- Break it into smaller “risks.” A big leap rarely feels doable all at once. Think micro-actions instead: sending the scary email, saying yes to a blind date, or booking a solo museum day even though doing things alone terrifies you.
- Stop waiting for an invite. Nobody’s walking around handing out Risk Passports. If you keep talking yourself out of wild ideas, you’ll never know just how far you could’ve gone.

Riding Your Own Next Wave

After that summer, I returned to Vancouver with more open space inside myself—for spontaneity, for challenges, and for a sense that risks were manageable after all. I also brought back a renewed sense of curiosity about how I’d been limiting myself out of fear.

What feels like your next leap? Maybe it’s scary, but that might mean you’re finally approaching the moments that stretch you into who you’re meant to be. Maybe your surfboard is an unfulfilled dream, or a crush you’re convinced would never work out, or a business idea you’ve been sitting on for years.

To that, I say: take the risk. Wear the metaphorical leaky wetsuit. Flail, wipe out, just do the thing. That first wave is waiting for you, somewhere just beyond the shore.

And trust me—whatever the outcome, you’ll thank yourself for paddling out.