I once dove off a metaphorical cliff, clutching only my gut instinct and a questionable knitting project. It was a leap of faith so out of character, so unplanned, that even my closest friends were skeptical. But let me explain how my greatest risk—and yes, this does involve yarn—taught me everything I know about love, courage, and finding yourself in the mess of it all. Spoiler: It was gloriously awkward.

The Setup: A Life Too Comfortable

Picture this: I’m 27, living in Santa Barbara, sipping endless cold brews on sun-dappled patios, and wrapping myself in the kind of comfort that felt suspiciously like a warm blanket—great, but not particularly motivating. I had the perfect coastal life. Great weather, good friends, and a career in environmental consulting that allowed me to tell people at dinner parties, “Yes, I travel for work.” (Who didn’t love a good flex about visiting wind farms?)

And yet every Friday night, I’d find myself on the same couch, with the same Netflix queue, feeling...restless. I wasn’t unhappy exactly, just uninspired, like ordering a salad and realizing halfway through you really wanted fries. My biggest “leap” at the time was upgrading my Trader Joe’s wine choice from Two Buck Chuck to something with an actual cork. That was when I bumped into someone who made me question everything: myself.

No, this isn’t the part where I meet a glittery romantic partner at a farmer’s market over shared love for heirloom tomatoes. This is the part where I meet me.

The Leap: Santa Barbara, Goodbye. Hello, Chaos.

I don’t know if it was turning 28 or the week I binge-read Joan Didion’s “Slouching Towards Bethlehem,” but I suddenly saw life as a series of missed chapters I hadn’t dared to write. I quit my cushy job, sold most of my stuff, told my mom I was moving to Los Angeles to “write narratives, not reports,” and landed in a Santa Monica sublease that reeked faintly of patchouli oil and poor decisions.

Here’s the kicker: I had zero plan. Just a notebook, a handful of creative writing workshop schedules, and inexplicable confidence in my ability to transform my LinkedIn-heavy life into a creative one. Friends called this brave. My parents called this “unnecessarily dramatic.” I called it my Big Main Character Moment.

Of course, life doesn’t magically unfold when you decide to hit reboot. I spent my first month in LA eating quesadillas three times a day because cheese is comforting, crashing obscure art gallery events hoping to meet “industry people,” and pitching writing ideas to publications that promptly ghosted me. Spoiler: No one, not even The Universe, owes you immediate success.

High-Risk, High Reward: The Knitting Group

Now let’s talk about something risky in a different way: Vulnerability. Somewhere in this chaotic move, I signed up for a random knitting workshop at a library. I had zero prior knitting experience—my cool factor was already in exile—but I'd read that creativity grows in unexpected places. That’s where I met Elena, a woman with neon hair and an excessive fondness for puns.

Elena became my first real LA friend. She invited me to board game nights I never wanted to leave and potlucks that introduced me to 12 renditions of vegan mac-n-cheese (none of which were better than the original). Knitting wasn’t just knitting; it was a metaphor—it taught me that what we build, stitch by stitch, matters. Relationships, creativity, courage—they all require that same delicate attention, that leap to believe what you’re working on will be worth the time, even when it looks like a chaotic ball of tangled yarn.

When Love Becomes Part of the Leap

Now here’s the twist: I didn’t only learn to risk in my creative and social life. On a rainy Thursday night (yes, LA does get rain on occasion), Elena dragged me to a lecture about sustainable fashion design. I almost didn’t go—it sounded both boring and oddly specific. Along came Ben, a sustainability consultant with the kind of disarming humor you initially resent because you’re laughing against your will.

If we were a rom-com, this would’ve been where sparks flew immediately. But we weren’t. Ben’s hobby was urban composting. I was still knitting a lopsided scarf no human would ever wear. We exchanged numbers, but I assumed nothing would come of it.

Spoiler: The second riskiest thing I ever did was go on our first hike-date at Griffith Park—a safe bet in theory, until I spent most of it hilariously out of breath pretending I “wasn’t really a hiker, just today.” By date three, I realized Ben possessed this uncanny ability to make me question my need to have it all figured out, while simultaneously acknowledging I knew more than I gave myself credit for.

Funny thing about dating someone who’s also figuring themselves out: It’s messy. And yet somehow, despite still eating questionable quesadillas, I felt “seen” for the first time.

Lessons Learned: Taking Risks Isn’t About “Winning”

If there’s one thing this leap taught me, it’s that risking isn’t about perfect outcomes or Instagram-worthy conclusions. It’s about the act itself—the terrifying yet freeing moment when you’re unsure whether you’ll land but jump anyway.

  • Relationships mirror growth. My early days with Ben weren’t about ticking off Hallmark milestones; they were about learning patience, realizing compromise doesn’t mean losing yourself, and laughing way too loudly over who made the better banana bread (still me).
  • Let go of control. As a lifelong planner, giving up roadmaps was excruciating yet liberating. It showed me that unforeseen detours—failed pitches, awkward scarf knots, botched dates—create the best stories.
  • Start somewhere. Anywhere. My biggest hurdle in risk-taking was the false idea I had to “be ready.” Newsflash: You’re never ready. Whether it’s moving cities, changing careers, or opening yourself to love, you’re always someone mid-sentence. That’s okay.

The Tangle of It All (And Why That’s Beautiful)

Today, that lopsided scarf sits folded in my Santa Monica apartment, a reminder that something doesn’t have to be perfect to matter. Ben and I? We’re still hiking but now laugh about the disastrous early days. Writing-wise, the risk of pitching my awkwardness as an asset finally paid off; turns out being authentically flawed resonates.

The point is, life isn’t a straight, logical line. It’s a tangle—messy and colorful and hilariously imperfect. But it’s also made meaningful by the ways we leap, trusting ourselves even when we’re scared witless.

Here’s my advice to you: Take a risk—big, small, knitting-related, or otherwise. Chase something greater than comfort. Who knows? You might land in places—and with people—you never expected. Isn’t that worth it?