I once bought a dog to impress a girl. Not my finest moment, I admit… but we’ll circle back to that.

Taking risks in dating—big ones, small ones, the kind that make your palms sweat and your inner voice scream, “What are you thinking?!”—can be terrifying. But sometimes, a wild leap into the unknown is exactly what life is asking of you. My greatest leap of faith? It started with a one-way flight from West Virginia to Los Angeles in pursuit of a long-distance relationship. Spoiler alert: it didn’t end the way I thought it would, but it reshaped my entire outlook and taught me lessons I never expected to learn. Especially about myself.

Let’s rewind to a crisp Appalachian evening, back when I still believed distance was no match for love and a credit card could solve just about any problem. My story begins there—and it’s got overdue library books and a stolen ham sandwich in it, so buckle up.

Love, Like Coal Dust, Gets Under Your Skin

I met her at a bookstore by the campus library during grad school in California—one of those meet-cute situations that would make indie filmmakers weep. She misquoted F. Scott Fitzgerald, and I corrected her (smooth, I know). Before I knew it, we were splitting plates of fries at diners and debating everything from jazz to faith. She was sharp and unpredictable, exactly the kind of spark that throws a simple guy from West Virginia completely off-kilter. But after graduation, she took a job in L.A., and I went back to my roots in West Virginia. Cue the Love Actually soundtrack.

For two years, we did the long-distance thing. Phone calls, letters, the occasional marathon Skype session long before FaceTiming over bad Wi-Fi was trendy. It felt romantic in a Myspace-era Nicholas Sparks kind of way, but eventually, reality started to bite. The miles between us weren’t shrinking, and spending every other holiday in airports isn’t as charming as movies make it seem.

Then one snow-packed January night, she asked me a question: Was there any way I could come to her?

First Class Dreams, Economy Reality

Leaving wasn’t an easy decision. West Virginia isn’t just a state; it’s a rhythm. It’s family porch swings creaking to the tune of banjos, neighbors loaning sugar like it’s a handshake, and diesel-stained boots outside every front door. My parents had worked too hard to give me a stable life, and now I was about to chuck stability out the window for love in a metropolis I didn’t know?

“But what if it works?” I whispered to myself at 2 a.m., heart racing.

It was a risk I couldn’t not take. So I sold my truck, packed two suitcases, and paid way too much for a cross-country flight. The LA airport was the loudest, most neon-plastered place I’d ever seen, but somewhere near baggage claim, she stood waiting. I swear the air smelled like possibility… or maybe that was just jet fuel.

Surfboards, Sushi, and Stumbling

The first few months in Los Angeles were… chaotic. Picture a coal miner’s son trying to fit into a city where avocado toast costs more than your electric bill. The only “surfing” I’d ever seen back home was on a dial-up internet connection, yet there I was, shouting “Cowabunga!” in borrowed board shorts. She thrived on the chaos—introducing me to kale smoothies, underground poetry slams, experimental art shows where someone interpreted heartbreak through interpretive dance.

I, however, was struggling. My charming Appalachian manners didn’t translate the way I’d hoped, and no amount of nodding could disguise how lost I felt in a conversation about modernist architecture.

And here’s the thing about relationships: big moves don’t fix small cracks. Between mismatched schedules and mounting pressures, our dynamic started to feel fragile. I’d risked it all to close the distance, sure, but emotionally, we couldn’t have been farther apart. One argument in particular—a blowup over who forgot to rinse the blender (truly the pettiest hill to die on)—made me realize how much resentment was bubbling under the surface.

When she finally told me she wasn’t sure things were working, I nodded, trying and failing to swallow my pride. Deep down, I knew she was right.

Goodbyes, Growth, and Guts

I moved into the cheapest apartment Airbnb could offer—an East L.A. studio with peeling wallpaper and exactly zero air conditioning. I stayed there eight months licking my wounds and figuring out what, exactly, I was doing with my life. Here’s what I learned during those lonely late-night walks along the overpass:

  • You can’t pour from an empty cup. I’d spent so much energy trying to adapt and prove myself to someone else that I’d completely forgotten to care for my own needs. Every relationship needs compromise, but losing yourself isn’t part of the deal.

  • Risk doesn’t guarantee reward—but it doesn’t mean failure either. Flying to California didn’t end the way I hoped, but the courage it took to get on the plane changed me. Bravery like that has a sneaky way of bleeds into other parts of life, like asking for raises or writing novels (even if rejection letters come flying back). Sometimes the leap itself is the point, not the landing.

  • Closure isn’t something someone else gives you. That relationship wasn’t the fairytale ending I’d hoped for—but the years I spent unpacking why it didn’t work made me a better version of myself. A breakup doesn’t mean wasted time; it often means you’re trading closure for clarity.

That Time I Adopted a Beagle

Oh, and the dog? About six months after the breakup, I impulsively adopted a beagle to “fill the void.” (In my defense, those puppy eyes are certified weapons of mass destruction.) I named her Daisy, after the Great Gatsby character—because yes, I’m that guy—and the first time she dragged an entire pizza off my kitchen counter felt oddly cathartic.

Every risk requires healing. It turns out, peanut butter + daily dog walks = pretty solid therapy.

Embrace the Leap

Would I move across the country for someone again? Probably not. But would I risk big, scary, uncertain things for the possibility of love or life-altering growth? Absolutely. Every stumble is an eventual step forward—you just have to trust the motion.

So, if you’re on the brink of something terrifyingly unfamiliar—whether it’s a first date, a new city, or telling someone how you really, truly feel—take it from me: leap anyway. Even if the ground gets shaky, you’ll land stronger on the other side.

And if it totally crashes and burns? Well, there’s always room for a beagle in your life. Or a very large glass of wine.