The Leap of Faith That Changed Everything

The Setup: When Comfort Became the Enemy

Let me paint you a picture: it’s 2015 in Miami, and my life is, for lack of a better term, comfortable. Too comfortable. I had a steady job as a journalist, writing about immigration and Latinx culture—work I was passionate about. My abuela’s warm hugs and black beans always waited for me after a long day, and I knew every crack in the sidewalk of Calle Ocho. On paper, it was perfect. But deep down? I felt like I’d hit the snooze button on my own life.

If you’re wondering whether this is the part of the story where I left everything to backpack through Europe... amigo, please. My Miami blood isn’t built for trekking through the Alps with a single carry-on. Instead, I took a different kind of leap: I applied to a creative writing fellowship in Chicago. A city where I knew no one. In the middle of winter. Because apparently, I wanted hypothermia to go along with my existential dread.

Why did I do it? Because sometimes, even the things you love can keep you playing small. Comfort—delicious as it is (hello, tostones)—can start to feel a lot like stagnation. And as my mom always said, "El que no arriesga, no gana"—if you don’t take risks, you don’t win.

The Move: Exchanging Sunshine for Snowstorms

Leaving Miami made me feel like I was betraying my community. My parents stared at me like I’d announced plans to join a circus. My abuela, ever the voice of emotional sabotage, asked pointedly, “¿Y si te mueres de frío allá?” Translation: What if you freeze to death there? A valid concern, given that I owned exactly one coat from a Macy’s Black Friday sale.

Arriving in Chicago felt like being dropped into another planet. The air smelled like steel, and the river was frozen over. Who knew that sidewalks could actually burn your face from the wind? When the fellowship began, I realized I was surrounded by people who had read every obscure Russian novel ever published, while I could quote Daddy Yankee’s entire Barrio Fino album without skipping a beat. They shared ski trip stories; I shared tales of dodging Miami traffic and learning to dance salsa before I could even walk. To say I felt out of place is like saying Bad Bunny is kind of popular.

But here’s the thing about feeling out of place: it forces you to find your footing. I decided to write the way I knew: unapologetically cultural, bilingual when I felt like it, and full of shoutouts to the people who raised me. My cohort? They loved it. Turns out, vulnerability is magnetic.

The Reward: Finding Myself in the Cold

That leap of faith didn’t just teach me how to properly bundle up (pro tip: gloves first, then jacket sleeves over the gloves or you’re doomed). It reshaped the way I view connection, identity, and risk-taking.

First, I learned that leaving your comfort zone forces you to reintroduce yourself—to yourself. Without the safety net of my family and lifelong friends, I had to ask: Who is Martin Garcia, when he isn’t standing on the familiar ground of Miami? Turns out, that guy is someone willing to dive into the unknown, even if it makes him sweat behind his scarf.

Second, I found new kinds of connections. My fellow writers became my family-away-from-family. We bonded over late-night editing sessions, Chicago-style pizza (strange but delicious in its own way), and navigating the gleeful chaos of deep creative work. When you let people into your life in a new setting, you realize the bonds you’re capable of forming are far greater than you imagined.

And finally, I learned that leaps don’t have to be perfect to pay off. It would’ve been easy to look at my Miami departure as indecision or running away. But what I see now is this: every choice you make to grow, no matter how messy, takes you closer to the life you’re meant to lead.

Lessons for Your Own Leap

Not everyone needs to upend their sunny existence to dive into a tundra of self-discovery (though I’d recommend at least one trip to Chicago—just not in January). But you might have your own leap that’s waiting. Maybe it’s changing cities, voicing your feelings to someone who makes your chest flutter, or pursuing a passion that terrifies you as much as it excites you.

Here are a few takeaways from my adventure into the unknown:

  • Expect resistance—then leap anyway. Whether it’s family guilt, fear of failure, or just good old-fashioned self-doubt, it’s going to wiggle its way in. Acknowledge it. Name it. Then pack it up and take it with you, because fear isn’t a permanent roommate unless you let it be.

  • Lean into your differences. My fellowship wasn’t made for a Cuban kid from Miami. But the difference between what people expect from you and what you actually bring to the table? That’s where the magic is.

  • Redefine success. Sure, I didn’t become the Great American Novelist by spring. (Although, hey, there’s still time.) Success isn’t always about milestones—it’s about moving forward, even if the steps feel wobbly.

  • Take it one parka-clad step at a time. The leap of faith doesn’t have to be one giant leap. Sometimes, it’s more like shuffling forward in snow boots. And that’s okay.

The Takeaway: Leap Toward the Unknown

Years later, I’m back in Miami (yes, with a proper coat, because I learned my lesson). My writing and approach to life shifted after that freezing stint, and so did I. Without Chicago, I wouldn’t have realized just how much there is to gain when you let go of what feels safe.

The truth is, life’s greatest risks often look like pure madness at first blush. Leaving a city you love. Putting your heart on the line for someone who makes your palms sweaty. Pursuing a dream you suspect might be out of reach. Every story worth telling begins with someone leaning into the unknown and hoping for the best.

So, the next time you feel that little itch to leap? Scratch it. You may end up floundering in a sea of snow and self-doubt for a while. Or, like me, you may find yourself covered in frostbite and clarity—and ultimately, a version of yourself you’re proud of. Either way, you’ll have one heck of a story to tell.