I was 1,500 miles from home, standing in a New England dorm room the size of a shoebox, staring at a twin XL bed that felt like a cruel joke. A single suitcase sat at my feet—half-filled with jeans, one treasured turquoise bracelet, and the only pair of boots I’d deemed worthy of this journey from Arizona to Vermont. I’d flown across the country to attend a liberal arts school that prided itself on its intellectual boldness. But my first thought was, "Boldness might just be a terrible idea."

Taking risks doesn’t come naturally to me. Growing up on the Navajo Nation, tradition was my cornerstone, grounding me within a tightly knit web of family and sacred culture. The reservation taught me about resilience, but also about playing it safe. We were raised to consider everything—what you say, where you step, how far you go. Risk felt more like disruption, and let’s just say a cross-country move to a place that considered snow “charming” was disruption at its finest.

So, how did a watchful desert girl end up taking the leap? Let’s rewind, shall we?

The Leap: Trading the Familiar for the Foreign

I still remember the static-filled phone call with the college admissions officer. She said, “Picture autumn leaves, apple orchards, and lecture halls where we discuss humanity’s big questions.” The recruiter really leaned into the whole tableau—and I fell for it. Vermont? Humanities? Big questions? Maybe I’d find myself in one of those scarves made of “alpaca-blended dreams,” puzzling over Kierkegaard. (Spoiler: I didn’t. But more on that later.)

What nagged at my gut, though, was everything I’d be leaving behind—family dinners where laughter echoed in the high-ceilinged rooms of my grandmother's house, the open sweep of sagebrush, the stars brighter than any ambitions I could capture. Home was predictable, warm, safe. I’d tucked any idea of leaving into the “sounds nice, not for me” drawer for years.

But here’s the thing about a leap: no one actually feels ready. Sometimes, you just stand on the edge of the metaphorical cliff, say “what have I got to lose?” and jump—while praying you packed your parachute.

Reality Check: The Crash Landing

Here’s where the story gets a little less dreamy. My first three months on campus were… well, rough. Picture it: I was the only Navajo student at the entire college. My classmates didn’t know what to make of someone who introduced herself by mentioning her clan affiliations. One guy literally asked me, mid-coffee shop conversation, if I lived in a tepee. It took all the restraint I had not to drop my latte and walk out.

But I pushed through. And through the crashing awkwardness, the polite smile/exhausted sigh combination I had perfected, I realized something. By taking this risk, I’d stumbled across a world where every moment was a chance to educate—with love, not resentment. Each crossed cultural barrier became an invitation to share: folklore passed down from my grandmother, the philosophy imbued in sandpaintings, even my strange superstition about moths. It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t always fun, but it was something I’d never expected the leap to give me: pride in my voice.

The Love Lesson: Risk Doesn’t Always Look Pretty

Take this as a love story, too. Not the notebook-and-sunsets kind of love, but the kind you build with yourself. Because here’s the messy truth: we can’t grow without budgeting for discomfort. Leaps, in whatever form they take—career changes, committing to someone or ending what isn’t working—rarely offer smooth landings. What they do offer is discovery.

By semester two, the girl with one suitcase had accumulated two more. Scarves were stuffed between anthropology notes. And guess what? I stopped worrying that I didn’t belong and started telling myself I’d wear boots or ballet flats if it felt right. Self-love leans heavily on imperfect outcomes, and that grit becomes its own foundation. I figured if I could leap into a snowstorm of strangers, maybe I could leap into other kinds of unknowns later, too.

Small Risks Matter, Too

My time in Vermont taught me this: taking a leap doesn't always start with vast, cinematic decisions. It begins piece by piece.

  • The email you draft but almost don’t send, then delete, then re-write.
  • The straightforward text to someone who makes your heart tick a little faster.
  • The job or city you shy from because change feels daunting.

You don’t need a cross-country relocation to understand risk; sometimes you just need to start with one brave “yes” at a time.

Embrace the Sobering Truth of Leap-Taking

If you’re about to leap, here are the truths you might not hear enough:

  1. It’s Messy. Risks aren't neatly tied in success-stories-on-Instagram bows. The mess is part of the magic.
  2. It’s Lonely. The edge of a cliff often means solitude. But the ones worth jumping from? They’ll change you, and the right people will find the transformed you.
  3. It’s Necessary. Staying stagnant for fear of falling is just a slow-motion tumble in disguise.

Found in Mid-Air: An Encouragement from One Leaper to Another

Life tends to reward leaps with invisible nets. They aren’t always obvious in the moment—sometimes, they’re disguised as the person who texts you mid-panic attack, or the gut instinct that says, “Keep going. You’re close.”

If you, like me, stand pressed against the threshold of risk, strap yourself into your mental parachute. Take inventory of what scares you most, then press the proverbial panic button anyway. Because here’s my boldest discovery: the safe walls we build to avoid falling down are often the ones that silently lock us in place.

So, I dare you. Leap. Lean into the freefall, hope for soft ground—and know that if you end up scraping your knees a little, you’ll rise quicker than you expect.

After all, what’s a life without a little chance-taking?