Have you ever stood on the edge of something terrifying and thrilling, heart pounding louder than a Beyoncé halftime show, asking yourself, "What if this is a huge mistake?" That was me two years ago, staring at the ticket confirmations on my phone the way a kid stares at the deep end of the pool without floaties. Charleston to New York. One-way. 

Let me set the stage. At thirty-two, I was comfortably uncomfortable—living in my hometown, still writing for the paper, sipping on sweet tea with my Aunt Clara every Sunday afternoon. My world was familiar, as soft and unchanging as a Lowcountry marsh at sunset. Filled with love but predictable, its easy pull often felt like the soft hands of generations saying, “Stay, child.” But deep down, I felt something—or maybe someone—was missing. And that’s where this story picks up: the day I decided, against all odds and common sense, to move to New York City for a man I had only been dating for five months. Spoiler: it was either the best idea I ever had or the plot of a rom-com on a budget.

Guilt, Grit, and Grand Romantic Gestures

First, a confession: I am not the grand romantic gesture type. Sure, I write about sweeping declarations of love in my novels, but in real life, I’ve always played it safe. “Steady and smart wins the race,” my mother taught me. But when Kristin—a six-foot-three art historian with a smile like moonlight reflecting on the Ashley River—swept me into a long-distance whirlwind of weekend visits and late-night FaceTime calls, I felt like the leading lady in a Shonda Rhimes drama.

We’d met at a spoken-word event in Atlanta while I was doing a book signing, and let’s just say he rewrote every single rule I thought I had about who I was looking for. Funny, kind, with this ineffable charisma that felt like catching fireflies in jar lids as a child, Kristin captivated me. He asked questions like, “What’s one story you’ve never told anyone?” and waited while I answered. The chemistry was electric—until, of course, reality decided to chime in.

Fast forward a few months to his job offer in New York City. “Long-distance can work!” my friends said. “Just visit when you can,” my family suggested. And at first, I agreed. But each goodbye at LaGuardia left me feeling like I’d traded in my rhythm for an out-of-tune melody.

Every logic-based cell in my body advised staying put. Home was safe, where familiarity buffered me from heartbreak. And yet, that small, hopeful part whispered, “What if you bet on him?” And so, I did. I packed my belongings, kissed my mama goodbye, and left the low-hanging moss of Charleston trees for the brash, concrete jungle. Talk about culture shock.

Survival of the Stupidly Brave

Let’s address the obvious: Flying across the country for love can feel like voluntarily showing up on “The Bachelor” with zero camera readiness. I’m talking about the sheer risk of it all—the potential for heartbreak, the growing pains of adjusting to a new place, and the possibility that you might spend evenings petting your cat while eating instant ramen.

What no one prepares you for is the messiness of leaping before you see the net. The first three months were less “Sex and the City” and more “Curl Up on the Couch and Cry.” Kristin and I didn’t have the effortless flow we had on vacations. Real life meant dealing with bills, the quirks of tiny Brooklyn apartments, and the occasional personality clash. Gone were the hours-long conversations about childhood dreams; instead, we argued over whose turn it was to clean the bathroom. Add to that my homesickness—missing mama’s collard greens, fireflies in the garden, and the smell of pluff mud after rain—and I felt like an uprooted oak tree, unsure if I’d ever thrive up North.

Here’s the raw truth: Taking a leap of faith in love is not about chasing the glittering highlight reels. It’s about weathering awkward silences, growing pains, and learning to love someone after the novelty wears off. It’s realizing that the fantasy can’t sustain you—but commitment might.

What Taking the Risk Taught Me

By our one-year anniversary, Kristin and I were still navigating the ebb and flow of partnership, but things had shifted: we simply got better at showing up for each other. We learned to laugh rather than argue over that impossible bathroom shelving. He didn’t always understand my fascination with shelling pecans in the sunlight, and I was immune to his rants about 15th-century Flemish art. And yet, through trials and triumphs, we discovered something deeper—the type of love that feels like putting down roots rather than chasing grandeur.

Here are some lessons I wish I could send my Charleston self before she bought that one-way ticket:

  • Leap Smartly, Not Blindly. Risks are romantic, but preparation is practical. Before you ship your life in a borrowed Honda Civic, take time to consider dealbreakers, expectations, and what a shared future really means.
  • You’re Still You—Don’t Lose That. In trying to create a new life, I almost forgot the parts of Charleston that ground me: cooking Lowcountry recipes, listening to spirituals on lonely nights, visiting bookstores that reminded me why I write. Love will grow best when you don’t uproot every part of yourself.
  • Speak Your Fear Out Loud. Moving brought out my insecurities: fear of failing, fear of losing him, fear of standing out like a shrimp-and-grits dish in a city of sushi platters. Sharing those feelings didn’t make me weaker in Kristin’s eyes—it brought us closer.
  • Risks Are Worth It—Even If They Flop. Spoiler: Kristin and I didn’t get married after three years, and I eventually returned to Charleston. But that leap taught me resilience, courage, and clarity about my boundaries. Would I do it again? In a heartbeat.

The Aftermath of Love and Leap

Here’s the plot twist I didn’t see coming: Just because it didn’t last forever doesn’t mean it wasn’t successful. Risks don’t have to end in fairytale endings for them to matter. My move to New York wasn’t about Kristin as much as it was about seeing what I was made of—and let me tell you, I came back tougher, truer, and with a collection of ridiculously good pizza recommendations.

If I could leave you with one word, it’s this: Jump. Don’t wait for the perfect conditions, because waiting isn’t living. Sure, you might stumble, maybe even fall, but sometimes the sweetest rewards come from daring to believe there’s something waiting to catch you.

Because whether you find love, lose it, or simply learn from taking the leap, you’ll walk away richer. Richer in soul, in flaws, in stories—the kind that remind you that even the riskiest steps are a grace note in the melody of your life. Always, always worth the fall.