The Risk That Changed Everything

I was standing on the edge of a metaphorical cliff, the kind that makes your stomach drop and your palms sweat—not because you’re falling but because the way forward looks impossibly scary. For me, that monumental leap occurred five years ago on a random Tuesday in August. After years of stability, predictability, and steady paychecks, I quit my secure but soul-sucking job as a press release writer for Vegas shows to chase a dream that, at the time, felt about as realistic as winning Megabucks after tossing in your last quarter.

That risk? Writing a novel. A whole novel. Not a short story I could tuck into the safety net of a magazine submission. Not a blogging gig where I could hide behind SEO keywords and stock photos of cappuccinos. A real, actual, beginning-to-end novel that someone might hate—or worse, never read at all.

Let me tell you how terrifying and exhilarating that decision was, and why it completely redefined my life in ways I never expected.

Comfort vs. Calling: When Stability Feels Too… Safe

On paper, I had it good. Living in Las Vegas meant I could count on year-round sunshine, a decent cost of living, and a bustling job market. I’d built a reliable freelance career writing promotional pieces for the city’s entertainment industry. I knew exactly how to make Siegfried & Roy sound magical for the five-hundredth time, how to sell a new Cirque du Soleil show to someone who’d already seen two dozen.

But after years of catering to the glamorized image of Las Vegas, I started to feel like I was trapped in a 24-hour buffet of half-baked clichés. All glitz, no substance. I wanted to write about something deeper, something where every word mattered—stories that explored the messy feelings hiding beneath all the neon.

Still, quitting that reliable work felt reckless. I wasn’t a trust fund baby; security mattered. Marie Kondo may tell you to let go of anything that doesn’t “spark joy,” but when you grow up watching your parents sew sequins onto costumes to make ends meet, stability feels like its own kind of joy. Leaving felt indulgent.

The "What If?" Factor

Let’s get one thing straight: Romanticizing risk is easy. We all love a good coming-of-age movie montage where the main character quits their job, flips off their boss, and suddenly blooms into their dream life. But that kind of leap doesn’t automatically come with a parachute. Trust me, when I finally told my steady clients I was stepping back—to focus on writing my own stories instead of everyone else’s—there were moments I felt like the world’s biggest idiot.

“What if I can’t figure out the plot?”
“What if my book isn’t original enough?”
“What if art doesn’t pay until I’m 87 and living off canned beans?”

Pitch-perfect anxiety, straight out of a Woody Allen movie (minus the Eurotrip backdrop). But what scared me more than all the unknowns was the possibility of never finding out. What if I settled for “good enough” and someday looked back, wondering if I’d had a real shot at writing something I was proud of?

Leaning into Fear: A Crash Course in Uncertainty

So, I started writing every morning before I was fully awake enough to talk myself out of it. I set my alarm for 6 AM, poured myself a mug of black coffee strong enough to double as paint stripper, and stared at the blinking cursor on my laptop like we were locked in a high-stakes staring contest.

At first, I overthought every page. Did my characters make sense? Was the dialogue believable? Was I setting myself up for heartbreak by investing so much energy into an outcome I couldn’t control?

It’s the same way you’d second-guess yourself after sending a bold opening text on a dating app (Did “Hey, I noticed you like ‘The Office’ too!” sound playful or weirdly desperate?). But little by little, I stopped worrying about getting it perfect on the first draft. I let myself play.

Some days were breakthroughs: I wrote a chapter so charged with emotion that I cried over my own keyboard (very Charles Dickens of me, if I do say so myself). Other days were disasters: I reread a scene and realized my characters sounded like robots who’d just learned sarcasm from watching YouTube tutorials.

Part of taking risks, I realized, is embracing the messiness. Not every step is glamorous, but every misstep is part of the dance.

Unexpected Side Effects of Risking It All

Here’s the funny thing about chasing a big, audacious dream: It doesn’t just transform your career or bank balance. It fundamentally shifts how you see yourself—and your relationships.

As my confidence grew, I started noticing the same risk-taking mindset showing up in other areas of my life, especially dating. Where I’d once gone for safe bets—the charismatic bartenders or charming musicians who felt “easy enough”—I started asking myself what kind of connections I truly wanted. Did I want someone who checked the right boxes on paper, or someone who could challenge and support me when I couldn’t see the forest for the trees?

When you jump off one cliff, it gets a little easier to face other ones. These days, I consider risk a form of intimacy. Dating, like writing, is about showing up with all of your messy, half-finished, psych-your-own-self-out flaws and saying, “Here’s where I am. Want to see where this goes?”

Making the Leap: What You Should Know

Whether it’s switching careers, chasing creative passions, or opening yourself up to a different kind of relationship, risk plays by the same rules. If you’re standing at your own metaphorical cliffside right now, here’s what I’ve learned:

  • Get comfortable with being uncomfortable. Seriously. Put yourself in the mindset of an Olympian training for a sport you’ve never heard of. Growth happens when things feel weird.
  • You cannot please everyone. There will always be people who don’t understand your choices (and, let’s face it, some will straight-up root for you to fail). Center yourself around the folks who get it—or, at least, who get you.
  • Celebrate every small victory. When you risk something big, it’s easy to hyper-focus on the end goal. But don’t forget to celebrate the little stuff—whether it’s finishing that draft, matching with someone genuine, or just surviving another Monday with your sense of humor intact.
  • Embrace the possibility of failure. The truth is, you might fail. But failure isn’t fatal unless you let it stop you. Every misstep is data you can use to try something better next time.

Where the Leap Lands You

Here’s where my story ends. My novel, once just a collection of late-night ideas and coffee-stained drafts, eventually became real. It nabbed a modest but meaningful book deal and even inspired a group of local book clubbers to host a desert-themed dinner party in its honor.

More importantly, taking that risk gave me a kind of clarity I’d never experienced before. Writing under my own name felt like reclaiming control over my own narrative—and over the fears that once held me captive.

I won’t lie to you: Risks are scary because they matter. But whether you end up with a finished novel, a soul-nourishing relationship, or just the satisfaction of knowing you tried, taking that first leap will always beat standing still.

So, I’ll ask you: What cliff are you standing on? And what’s waiting for you on the other side?