Jumping Without a Safety Net: The Most Delicious Leap I Ever Took

I distinctly remember standing in my parents’ bakery, balancing an aggressively frosted guava pastelito in one hand and my future in the other. I was 24, fresh out of college, and armed with an English degree that everyone in my family swore would starve me faster than a Miami heatwave in July. My mom, ever the realist disguised as a hopeless romantic, leaned over the counter and said, “Mijito, you can be whatever you want to be, just... maybe also take business classes?”

She meant well. Cuban families are like protective clouds of cafecito steam—warm, loud, and always hovering. But her words stuck. What did I really want to be? In that moment, the reasonable choice was to stay home, maybe help run the family bakery, and settle into a comfortable, predictable existence. But deep down, I knew I wanted more. Specifically, I wanted to write—poetry, essays, the stories of my community—but in Hialeah, that dream felt as out of place as an off-brand colada.

So I took the leap. Or maybe I cannonballed, splashing cafecito all over the family plan.

An Invitation I Almost Ignored

The leap began with an email, one I almost deleted. It was a forwarded note from a professor telling me about a residency program for young writers in Key West. Hemingway’s old stomping grounds, tropical sunsets, Hemingway again... you know the vibe. The catch? It was unpaid, two months long, and 100 miles away from everything and everyone I knew: my family, my culture, my pastelitos.

Still, the idea of leaving stirred something. I’d never lived anywhere outside of Tallahassee for school, and even then, my dad had “visited” so often it was like I never left the Hialeah bubble. Taking this residency meant living completely on my own, free-floating in the unpredictable waters of my ambitions—and that was terrifying.

But something deep inside—the same instinct that tells you to text your crush just one more time before giving up—pushed me. So I applied, packed my bags, and watched as my family tried to pack me a three-month supply of croquetas.

When I arrived in Key West, I felt like Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality—a complete stranger in a space where everyone spoke in inside jokes I didn’t get. My fellow “artists” threw around words like “juxtaposition” and compared their writing to Picasso paintings. I, meanwhile, had been deeply inspired by my neighbors’ tit-for-tat arguments over who got the bigger medianoche sandwich. I thought, Raúl, you’ve made a mistake.

The Art of Falling Flat on Your Face (Elegantly)

The first week was rough. My writing felt clunky compared to the “raw vulnerability” my peers claimed to have perfected. (Spoiler: most of them hadn’t.) I spent hours walking up and down Duval Street, pretending to be inspired by the way sunlight hit the water when really, I was mentally drafting my escape plan.

But risking it all, I realized, wasn’t about immediate success. It wasn’t glamorous or Instagrammable. It was about sitting in the discomfort of not knowing—who I was, what my art was, why I couldn’t seem to stop craving a proper cafecito.

So, I stopped trying to fit into other people’s stories and let my Hialeah roots spill into my work. Cafeterías, domino tables, my dad’s impression of Celia Cruz—all of it made its way onto the page. Turns out, authenticity was my secret weapon. The writers who intimidated me began asking to read my work. One even confessed, “I wish I could write about home like you do.” I thought, Hermanito, you could if you stopped trying to sound like Hemingway.

By the end of the residency, those two months away felt less like a leap and more like a homecoming—to myself. I left Key West with a draft of my first published story, a backpack full of mosquito bites, and a renewed sense of purpose.

Why Taking Risks Is basically Dating 101

Looking back, that leap of faith wasn’t just about my writing—it taught me a lot about relationships, too. Hear me out:

  • You Have to Leave the Comfort Zone Sometimes. Whether it’s risking a hard truth in a serious relationship or flirting with that intriguing stranger, love, like life, rewards the bold. Had I stayed in Hialeah and clung to predictability, I wouldn’t have found my voice—or had the guts to really be myself.

  • Rejection Doesn’t Mean Failure. I won’t lie and tell you that first week wasn’t like locking eyes with your crush only for them to walk directly past you. But just like in dating, the moment you embrace rejection (or awkwardness), you grow.

  • No One Else Can Be You. Seriously, do the work of bringing your unique self to the table, whether that table’s a date at a sushi spot or a writing deadline during a residency. Authenticity isn’t just attractive—it’s magnetic.

The Cafecito Moment

So, did the risk pay off? Absolutely. Taking that leap led to published stories, unexpected friendships, and a life I could actually call my own. And while it didn’t lead me to a Nobel Prize (yet), it taught me something invaluable: we underestimate how incredible we truly are when we let ourselves be vulnerable, awkward, or uncertain.

Back in Hialeah, my dad still asks me to edit the bakery’s Instagram captions (his hashtags are wildly unhinged), but this time, it feels like collaboration, not compromise. “It’s good to have a writer in the family,” he says. And when he tells his friends about my residency, he always ends with, “You wouldn’t believe it—he didn’t even take the portable espresso maker I offered him.”

Somewhere out there, you might be standing on the edge of your own leap—the flirtation with a new path or person that scares you more than you’d like to admit. My advice? Jump anyway.

Trust me, the guava will still be there when you land.