Have you ever felt like your life was a neatly plotted map? The kind where every route leads you exactly where it’s supposed to, except all the roads look suspiciously like they end up...back in the same place? That was me, seven years ago, standing in the salt-flushed breeze of a Nantucket morning, that overwhelming sense of predictability wrapping around me like sea fog. Home was beautiful, familiar, but I couldn’t shake the itch to do something reckless. Something uncharted. Something that didn’t involve the words “whaling,” “inn,” or “cobblestone streets.”

For me, that leap of faith came in the form of leaving Nantucket again—but not for school or a museum desk job this time. This was fuzzier, less defined. Packed away in my wheeled duffel were story drafts, half-imagined characters, and a dream some folks whispered was “a bit precarious.” I was on my way to Edinburgh, not as a student, but as a writer determined to make something of all the yarns I’d been spinning since childhood. With no guarantee of readers, income, or landlord sympathy if rent went unpaid, I was betting on sheer determination and a little naivety.

Spoiler alert: it didn’t exactly go according to plan. But also—it kind of did.

The Pre-Leap Jitters Are Real

Risk is romantic when you think about it in hindsight—or, you know, when it belongs to characters in Jack London novels. But when it’s your life? It feels a lot less bold and a lot more like ordering the mystery fish “special” at a dodgy café—exciting on the menu, but kind of terrifying when it shows up on the plate.

For weeks before I left, I wrestled with self-doubt. After all, it wasn’t as if I was off to conquer uncharted waters. My ancestors were actual whalers who faced storms and unknowns; I was just an over-caffeinated twenty-something armed with a passport and an impractical scarf. What was I trying to prove? Couldn’t I just keep researching the 18th century from my cozy desk by the Nantucket Sound?

But here’s the thing about comfort zones: they’re dangerously seductive. They tell you, “Why leave? Why risk it?” when deep down, you know there’s something else out there for you. And as familiar as Nantucket was, I also knew I needed to swap the Atlantic for the North Sea and see what happened.

Learning the Hard Way: Romantic, Yes. Ideal? Not Exactly.

Edinburgh greeted me with exactly the kind of crisp energy I needed: cobblestones slick with recent rain, medieval spires shrouded in mist, and locals exchanging pleasantries in accents I could only half-decipher. It felt like I’d stepped into Gothic historical fiction—a genre I wasn’t yet qualified to write.

The first few days were a honeymoon. I scrawled story outlines in notebooks at cafés perched on Royal Mile corners, confident I’d be the next great voice of maritime historical fiction. But then came the bills, the creeping loneliness, and the sinking realization that “romantic” and “practical” rarely overlap. Writing for hours in cafés sounds dreamy until you realize espresso isn’t a substitute for rent money.

For two weeks, I alternated between freaking out over my decision and distracting myself with museum exhibits and literary readings. This leap wasn’t the boundless ship ride of new possibilities I’d envisioned—it was slow-going, filled with recalculations, and a lot of midnight pep talks. There were days when my only accomplishment was finding a warm pub with an affordable soup special. But bit by bit, I found my rhythm.

What No One Tells You About Risk: The Payoff Isn’t Always What You Expect

So, here’s where you think I say, “And then everything turned around.” But life isn’t a Hallmark movie—or at least, mine wasn’t. Things didn’t “turn” so much as they meandered into a better place.

I got a part-time job at a secondhand bookstore, my first real sense of routine in this city. Little did I know, shelving novels and chatting with customers about their favorite authors would do more for my creativity than any perfectly planned writing schedule. At night, I kept at my stories—though some nights were spent crumpling drafts, dramatically sighing, and staring at the damp ceiling of my rented room.

My first novel—a historical romance set in a fictionalized Nantucket during a whaling downturn—didn’t sell immediately. In fact, it sat in digital rejection purgatory for nearly eight months. But that book taught me how to fail gracefully, how to keep showing up even when there’s nothing tangible to prove you’re on the right path. And, eventually, it found a home. Rough patches and all, Edinburgh had reignited something I lost somewhere between childhood curiosity and adult responsibility.

So, Should You Take the Leap?

Risks, whether in love, work, or life, feel different for everyone. Maybe yours isn’t about hopping on a plane with a semi-edited manuscript and a vague aspiration; maybe it’s telling someone how you feel after months of wondering if you should. Either way, the common thread is this: risk demands vulnerability. And vulnerability, terrifying as it is, is where the good stuff happens.

Here are a few things I’d learned along the way about diving headfirst into the unknown:

  • Your Plan Won’t Go According to Plan. This isn’t pessimism—it’s permission to adapt. Flexibility is the lifeboat when the seas get rough, so leave room for surprises.
  • You Don’t Need All the Answers Right Away. Uncertainty didn’t kill me, even though I was sure it would at the time. Take decisions one day at a time.
  • Give Yourself Permission to Fail. Failure isn’t a character flaw. More often, it’s how you find the cracks where creativity, growth, or a better path can slip through.
  • Be Open to Small Joys. Sometimes, progress is as tiny and random as a stranger telling you they liked your hat (true story—it made my week). The big breakthroughs will come, but don’t overlook the little moments in between.

Anchors Away

When I returned to Nantucket months later to visit family, the island felt different—not because it had changed, but because I had. The risks I’d taken hadn’t turned me into a millionaire novelist overnight, but they did help me understand myself better in ways no routine back home ever could. It turns out the point of risk isn’t about guarantees or instant success—it’s about proving to yourself that you’re more capable than you think.

Now, whether I'm picking up threads of local history or navigating tricky emotional waters in relationships (spoiler: they share a lot of overlapping storms), I remember this: those leaps, no matter how small they seem, almost always land somewhere meaningful.