I met my greatest fear halfway across a river—or at least that’s how I like to think of it.

A few years ago, I was invited to a cattle branding on a neighboring ranch. If you’re unfamiliar with this grand Montana tradition, branding season is a chaotic ballet of dust, sweat, and half-yelled banter. It’s as much about connection as it is about calves and irons. You don’t go to one unless you’re ready to work, or at least bring something more substantial than a six-pack to the post-branding barbecue.

That spring day, though, my chest had a weight to it that had nothing to do with ropes or rustling cows. It wasn’t branding season that spooked me. It was him.

We’ll call him Wyatt, the ranch hand with a jawline so sharp it could’ve split fenceposts. Wyatt knew I existed, but barely—our conversations had been limited to the occasional nod at the feed store or a few polite words when we ended up riding fence together the previous summer. And I knew myself just enough to know that my affection for solitude was not, in fact, making me more alluring. Quiet mystery sounds great in romance novels, but out here in the real world, silence doesn’t exactly draw in the cowboys.

So there I was, stuck somewhere between wanting to tell him his Levi’s were doing him real justice and booking it back home for a night with my dog and a bottle of huckleberry wine. I was standing at the edge of vulnerability, and let me tell you, it was as vast and intimidating as the Beartooth Range.

But when the hosts asked me and Wyatt to ferry a few stubborn cows across the shallow river to the west pasture, I had my chance—or my doom.

Section I: Taking the Leap (with a Rope in Hand)

I grew up on a ranch, which means I know my way around hard work and hard edges. But navigating relationships? That’s a different beast entirely. For the record: wrangling a recalcitrant cow across running water is nothing compared to wrangling my own anxieties while Wyatt rode alongside me.

As we worked together, I realized that vulnerability is a lot like crossing a river. One wrong move, and you’re soaked. Play it too safe, and you’ll never leave the shore. You have to push through the uncertainty, trust the current, and figure out that it’s only ankle-deep after the first step.

Wyatt chuckled when my horse got spooked by a low-lying branch, and instead of brushing it off, I said, “Guess I’m more bark than bite today.” It wasn’t poetry, but it cracked the silence. We started talking—what we both loved about Montana, the quirks of our town, his theory that ranch dressing and ketchup had no business sharing the same fridge shelf. By the time the cows made it to the far bank, I wasn’t just thinking about how good he looked in the afternoon light; I was thinking about how much more there might be to know.

Section II: Why Risk is the Only Ride Worth Taking

Had I kept my cards close to my chest, I’d probably still be waving to Wyatt from the feed store parking lot today. But sometimes, you have to take the proverbial leap and hope there’s solid ground on the other side. That’s the thing about risk—whether it’s flirting with your crush, starting a new chapter in life, or daring to communicate what you really want in a relationship, it requires bravery rooted in clarity.

From that day on the riverbank, I learned some truths that have stuck with me:

  • Fear is a Signal, not a Stop Sign: Butterflies mean you care, not that you’re about to fall apart. Lean into them.
  • Start Small, but Start: Sometimes it’s enough to open with one vulnerability. Like admitting you’re a sucker for huckleberry pancakes or that you’re terrified of heights but secretly want to climb that ridge line someday.
  • Share the Labor: Relationships aren’t a performance. They’re teamwork. Whether it’s cattle, conversations, or emotional baggage, don’t carry it all yourself.

Remember, big risks in romance come in bite-sized moments—one honest sentence at a time.

Section III: The Outcome? More Dirt, and More Joy

You probably want to know if Wyatt and I became the next great love story of Yellowstone-level proportions. The answer is no. We went on a few dates, bonded over shared sunsets and spilled coffee, and ultimately parted ways when my work took me longer hours up the Rockies. But the outcome isn’t the point.

Wyatt wasn’t my “one,” but he taught me that being vulnerable doesn’t take anything away from who I am. I’m not weaker because I reached out first; I’m stronger because I’m learning to trust myself in the asking. And that lesson didn’t dissolve when Wyatt and I did. It carried over into friendships, family conversations, even how I approach my writing. It’s changed the way I show up for myself and for others.

Section IV: Your Turn to Take the Leap

Maybe your Wyatt is someone you’ve seen across a crowded coffee shop, someone whose playlist matches yours perfectly, or someone who makes standing in line at the DMV almost pleasant. Maybe your leap of faith isn’t even about love—it might be about calling your best friend and finally saying, “Sorry I ghosted the book club, can we start fresh?” Vulnerability stretches further than romance; it’s the thread that connects us all.

The most Montana thing about risk-taking? We know that every storm carries a chance of clear skies behind it. Just like riding out snowdrifts or trudging through calving season, the hard part always comes with the possibility of something sweet. The work—the risk—is worth it.

So whatever leap you’re standing in front of, take it. What’s waiting on the far side—whether it’s love, self-discovery, or just a great story—might surprise you in ways as vast as the foothills and twice as beautiful.