My Greatest Risk

Growing up in Beaumont, Texas, taking risks wasn’t exactly part of the cultural curriculum. There, "playing it safe" was less of a cautionary tale and more of a survival skill. You stuck to what you knew—fried catfish on Fridays, Easter Sunday church outfits so sharp they could cut you, and aspirations grounded firmly in the familiar (think refinery jobs, not Renaissance artists). But every so often, life nudges you in directions you never saw coming, and for me, that nudge came in the form of a risk so terrifying it left me curled up under a Walmart comforter for two days: moving to Chicago.

Let’s backtrack.

The Fear of Staying Still

Postgrad, I was chugging along as a high school teacher in Houston, back in the city’s mix after claiming my Sociology degree from a historically Black college. I was doing all the "right" things my upbringing taught me: stable job, involved in my community, smiling hard enough at family reunions to convince my aunts I was fine. But fine doesn’t feed your spirit. When the classroom was quiet (especially on those rare Fridays when the kids had a half-day), I’d hear whispers of that unshakable ache we all feel when pretending life is "enough."

And let me keep it real: I was hiding. Hiding my queerness in spaces that still clung to stereotypes I was too exhausted to fight. Hiding my dreams of becoming a writer behind excuses about stability. Even hiding from the possibility of love because, well, how do you explain being gay in a place—a real, living home—that still operates like queerness is “a phase you grow out of, like braces or baggy Southpole jeans”?

The wake-up call came after I published a few personal essays online. The feedback rocked me. People connected to my words—my stories—and encouraged me to keep writing. I knew then that living authentically and creatively would take more than just rearranging my schedule to attend “writer meet-ups.” It would take big, scary change, the type that shakes you up and lays you bare. It would take leaving everything I knew behind.

Packing Fears and Fresh Starts

When I told my parents about my plan to move to Chicago, my dad squinted like I’d confessed to taking Beyoncé off my workout playlist. “What’s in Chicago?” he asked, as if the city were just one large question mark hanging out somewhere north of the Mason-Dixon line. My mother kept her poker face intact but asked the practical, soul-crushing question parents are world champions at delivering: “How you gone afford all this?”

I didn’t have clear answers—I had savings, ambition, and the determination that my existence was meant for something bigger than routine. So I packed what I could into two suitcases, kissed my Houston comforts goodbye, and hopped on a plane with my heart racing fast enough to qualify as cardio.

Let me tell y’all: The first few weeks were brutal. Chicago winters laughed at my knock-off puffer coat like Regina George in Mean Girls. Networking events were intimidating enough to make a person consider becoming a hermit—and don’t even get me started on the uphill battle of finding “your people” in entirely new spaces. For a while, my evenings often ended with me triple-checking my bank account, eating leftover noodles, and pondering whether risk actually paid off—or if I’d hustled my way into disaster.

But slowly, things began to shift—not magically, not overnight, but steadily. I leveraged my essays to connect with local arts nonprofits, and those connections became opportunities. I discovered workshops, open mics, and safe spaces where my identity was celebrated, if not fully understood. New friends invited me into rooms where transformation replaced dread. And despite all those late-night doubts, I knew in my gut that every hardship carried a whisper of reward.

The Magic in Betting on Yourself

Here’s the thing about risks: No one tells you how deeply isolating, rewarding, frustrating, and freeing they can be—all at the same damn time. While I found new opportunities in Chicago, I also learned to confront myself in ways I’d previously avoided. When you’re stripped of your safety nets, your insecurities shout louder than you ever imagined. Will people take me seriously as a writer? Am I lovable as I am? Have I completely lost my mind?

One afternoon, while volunteering at a nonprofit writing workshop for queer Black youth, I realized I hadn’t lost my mind—I’d found my purpose. Teaching those kids to unapologetically share their stories took me back to the dreams I almost buried under Beaumont expectations. Watching their confidence grow reminded me how transformative storytelling can be, not just for our communities but for ourselves.

It’s funny—you think risk is all about creating distance from what you know, but it’s really about bringing you closer to who you are.

Lessons Learned (Because I’m a Teacher at Heart)

For anyone standing on the edge of their own big leap, know this:

  • The Fear is an Indication: If the idea of doing the thing makes your stomach flip like Beyoncé’s Coachella set, pursue it. Comfort zones exist for a reason, but nothing grows there except regret.
  • You Are Resourceful: When you bet on yourself, you figure it out. Don’t wait to have everything "perfectly planned." Start with what you have, even if all you've got is faith and a solid pack of Post-it Notes.
  • Your People Will Find You: Authenticity attracts what’s meant for you. When I stopped performing versions of myself to fit into spaces and lived boldly, people and partnerships came into alignment.

Beyond the Risk

Eventually, I left Chicago and returned to Texas to support my family, empowered by the lessons I’d learned and the growth I’d experienced. The move didn’t “solve” everything, but taking that risk—diving headfirst into discomfort—taught me how to trust my own resilience. It also showed me that no matter where you go or how far you stray, your journey is valid—and you, my friend, are always worth the leap.

So the next time you’re faced with a big, scary decision—whether it’s moving to a new city, embracing your identity, or saying “no” to someone who doesn’t value you—ask yourself this: Do you want to spend your life playing it safe, or do you want to create the kind of story that makes your soul sing?

Trust me when I say this: The story is always worth the risk.