“It’ll Be Fun,” They Said: A Grand Leap of Faith

Let me set the scene for you: Brooklyn, a humid July. The sidewalks are sticky with summer sweat, my AC is hanging on by a prayer, and my best friend, Ayo, is staring at me from across the couch like he’s just discovered fire. “You’ve gotta go, Malik,” he says, jabbing a finger at his laptop screen. “This is the opportunity.”

On the screen is an application for a one-year writing residency in London. Fully funded. A chance to breathe life into my unfinished manuscript about misplaced love and migration. Ayo is already packing my hypothetical bags. I, on the other hand, am rehearsing ways to politely say, “Absolutely not.”

You see, I’m not someone who tosses myself into life’s unknowns with Instagram-influencer confidence. Back then, I was a teacher by day, an exhausted writer by night, and a creature of habit in every spare minute. I liked knowing where my next cup of coffee was coming from and which bodega guy would be closing at 10 p.m. The idea of moving across the Atlantic? Leaving my steady life in Queens for a city I hadn’t seen since my layover at Heathrow? That felt like quitting before the game even started. But then Ayo hit me with the line that changed everything:

“Bro, when you gonna stop flirting with life and just take her out already?”

Taking the Plunge

Later that night, while half-watching reruns of Martin, I scrolled through the application again. I wasn’t just intimidated by the logistics (though trust me, trying to ship books overseas is its own nightmare). No, what really stopped me in my tracks was fear—fear that stepping so far out of my comfort zone would expose me as an imposter. What if I didn’t have what it took to be a “real” writer, the kind who belonged in places like London?

But as Ayo reminded me when I texted him at 2 a.m. in a state of rhetorical panic: “You’re already a real writer. Stop waiting for someone to hand you permission to be who you already are.”

So, I submitted the application. I figured the odds were slim—the literary version of throwing a bottle into the Atlantic and waiting for someone in Europe to fish it out weeks later. But six months (and one stammered acceptance phone call) later, there I was: passport in hand, boarding a flight to London with my entire life crammed into one suitcase and two overstuffed carry-ons.

Let me tell you, dear readers, TSA was unimpressed by my packing skills.

Lost in Translation (and Trafalgar Square)

The first few weeks in London were…well, let’s call them “an adjustment.” I’d imagined writing in picturesque cafes, strolling along the Thames with a notebook in hand, fully immersed in creative euphoria. What I did NOT anticipate was spending my third day locked out of my flat after losing my key. Or crying—yes, fully crying—in line at a Tesco because they didn’t have plantain chips and I was homesick for Brooklyn snacks.

But something funny happened when I stopped trying to force life abroad into my neatly curated narrative. I started having honest-to-goodness moments: sharing a good laugh with an elderly Nigerian shopkeeper in Peckham who reminded me of my dad, stumbling into pub trivia night and shocking the locals with my knowledge of British rom-coms, learning the fundamentals of tea culture (spoiler: you WILL get side-eyed for asking if you can skip milk).

Bit by bit, I stopped feeling like an outsider tiptoeing through a foreign city and started feeling like a character in my own story.

The Unexpected Plot Twist

Here’s the thing they don’t tell you about leaping into the unknown: the scariest part isn’t what you might fail to accomplish—it’s learning how to measure success in a new way. When I first arrived in London, I thought my “great leap” would only be worth it if I left with a polished manuscript, ready to send into the world. Spoiler alert: I didn’t finish the book—not yet, anyway. But I did leave with something even more valuable.

I learned how to trust the process—an infuriatingly vague but undeniably necessary skill for every creative (and let’s face it, probably every dater too). Sometimes the leap isn’t about sticking the landing; it’s about pushing yourself to take off in the first place. It’s about allowing yourself to embrace the awkward, messy, and humbling moments that force you to grow.

For me, growth looked like this:
- Learning to quiet my inner critic when my writing didn’t flow perfectly.
- Giving myself grace when homesickness hit like an unexpected wave.
- Recognizing that leap-taking isn’t a one-time event but a cycle of rediscovery—daring to reach, stumbling a little, and finding my footing again.

And, yeah, it also looked like discovering that custard creams are the most underrated biscuit ever and finding an unapologetic joy in that small, sweet victory.

What This Means for You (and Why You Should Jump Too)

You don’t have to apply for a writing residency or board a plane to take a leap of faith. Every day, life offers us chances to trust in the unknown. Maybe it’s finally asking out that cute coworker who always laughs at your bad jokes. Maybe it’s deciding to end a relationship that’s gone stale. Or maybe it’s something as simple (and deceptively terrifying) as going to a party solo and introducing yourself to someone new.

Whatever your version of “the leap” is, I’ll tell you this: it’s worth it. It’s worth the risk, the sweat, and the possibility of falling flat on your face—because even if you don’t land where you planned, you’ll land somewhere. And that “somewhere” might just surprise you.

So go ahead. Flirt with life, sure—but every now and then, ask her to dance.

Closing Thoughts

London didn’t turn me into the next James Baldwin or Chinua Achebe overnight (shocking, I know). It did, however, remind me that the greatest risks come with the sweetest rewards: new perspectives, unexpected friendships, and a much-needed reminder that we’re capable of so much more than we think.

If I hadn’t taken the leap, I wouldn’t have half the stories I carry with me now—or the confidence to keep taking chances, from writing deadlines to romantic confessions. Because if there’s one universal truth I’ve learned, it’s this: life, much like love, rewards the bold.

So grab your metaphorical parachute (or maybe just a key you won’t lose at Tesco). It’s time to take the leap. Who knows where you’ll land?