When I was twenty-six, I took the most terrifying leap of faith in my life. No, it wasn’t skydiving (my fear of heights keeps my feet firmly planted on Tennessee soil). And no, I wasn’t auditioning for American Idol (trust me, I’ve seen my share of crushing rejections in the Nashville music scene). My great risk was far less glamorous but a lot more intimate—it was saying "I love you" to someone who might not say it back.

If you’re tempted to roll your eyes, I get it. Love confessions happen in rom-coms all the time. There’s usually a quirky best friend, a Beyoncé song swelling in the background, and a perfectly timed grand gesture. In reality? There’s just you, your wildly beating heart, and the kind of gut-wrenching vulnerability that makes you sweat in places you didn’t even know had sweat glands. My risk wasn’t performed with an audience or a catchy soundtrack. It was the quiet kind of courage that can only exist in moments when you're completely raw and real with another person.

Let me take you back.

The Great Risk Begins (with Biscuit Crumbs)

I was seated across from Jack, the man I’d been dating for six months, in a cozy East Nashville diner. I’d deliberately chosen this spot because I thought its friendly chaos—the sound of plates clattering, the scent of freshly baked biscuits—might distract me from my existential dread. We were sharing a plate of hash browns when the thought struck me like a runaway banjo in a bluegrass jam: I’m totally in love with him.

Cue panic.

Falling in love is supposed to feel soft and warm, and maybe it does for some people. For me, it felt like tripping over my own shoelaces and landing face-down in a pile of emotions I wasn’t ready for. I wanted to tell Jack how I felt, but the stakes seemed impossibly high. What if he didn’t feel the same? What if I ruined everything? Would I have to find a new brunch spot to avoid seeing his awkward “let’s just be friends” face?

Still, the words bubbled up so insistently that I knew I couldn’t stuff them back down forever. Love is funny that way. It refuses to stay quiet; it demands to be acknowledged, even when you’d rather shove it to the darkest corner of your mind and lock the door.

Why Taking a Leap Feels Impossible

Let’s be honest: most of us are scared to put ourselves out there because rejection feels like a sucker punch to the soul. Nothing says "ouch" quite like someone you care about kindly explaining that they don’t feel the same. And let’s not kid ourselves—Hollywood’s “just be brave!” messaging isn’t exactly comforting when your options are emotional victory or complete humiliation.

Looking back, I considered not taking the risk at all. At least if I said nothing, Jack and I could keep coasting along in a blissful limbo of non-committal conversation and shared Spotify playlists. But that felt unfair—to him and to me. True connections deserve honesty, even when it makes your stomach flip like a Cirque du Soleil performer.

The Moment of Truth (A.K.A. Why Did I Wear This Sweater?)

Two weeks after my breakfast epiphany, I knew I had to say something. My overthinking brain had already imagined every possible outcome, from Jack laughing in my face (unlikely but still horrifying!) to him ghosting me through sheer mortification. But here’s the thing about waiting too long: the more you overanalyze, the more it gnaws at you. At some point, I had to rip off the Band-Aid.

One drizzly Tuesday night, as we stood by my car, I finally summoned the courage. Jack was telling an animated story about his coworker’s failed attempts to bake sourdough when I blurted out, “I need to tell you something.” My voice cracked slightly, and I suddenly regretted wearing the oversized sweater that made me look like I’d stolen it from my dad’s closet. Not helping the confidence levels.

When he asked what was up, I stumbled through an awkward preamble before landing on the truth: “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

The words hung there in the misty air, and for a split second I thought I’d made a colossal mistake. Then Jack smiled—one of those slow, quiet smiles that warm you from the inside out. “I’ve been waiting for the right moment to tell you the same thing,” he said simply.

Listen, I wish I could say we kissed in a rain-soaked, cinematic embrace worthy of Nicholas Sparks, but this is real life, not a Hallmark movie. Still, the relief and joy I felt in that moment were as heady as the first sip of sweet tea on a summer porch. We didn’t need background music or dramatic gestures; the words were enough.

The Takeaway: It’s Always Worth the Leap

So, what’s the moral of my biscuit-crumbed love story? Here’s the truth: vulnerability is terrifying, but it’s also the most powerful thing we can offer another person. It’s easy to hide our feelings, shield ourselves from pain, or wait for someone else to make the first move. But love—at its purest—is bold. It demands full exposure of our beautifully imperfect, gloriously messy selves.

If you find yourself hesitating, second-guessing, or rehearsing a big leap of your own, let me offer this:

  • Embrace the What-Ifs: Sure, there’s always a risk of rejection, but what if it works out? Let hope guide you instead of fear.
  • Be Honest with Yourself First: Before you bare your soul to someone else, ask yourself if this is something you’re truly ready for. You deserve clarity before you take that leap.
  • Forget Perfect Timing: Waiting for the “right moment” often means no moment at all. Take the chance, even if you’re in a parking lot wearing a less-than-flattering sweater.

And remember: fear can’t hold you hostage forever. Vulnerability might feel like jumping off a high dive blindfolded, but the splash is almost always worth it. Whether they catch you with open arms or not, you’ll know that you dared to be brave. In the end, that’s what love—and life—is all about.

Looking back, my Nashville upbringing taught me plenty about risking big for the things that matter. Whether it’s pouring my heart into a song lyric or confessing my love in a diner booth, the lesson’s the same: leaps of faith don’t always lead to perfect endings, but they lead to honest ones. And my honest moments with Jack? Well, let’s just say we're still working on perfecting those hash browns—together.