THE LEAP.
There’s a moment that comes after awareness—after fear has been named—when nothing is unclear, but nothing feels safe either.
That’s where I am now.
Not confused.
Not lost.
Not unsure of what I want.
Just standing at the edge of something I can’t ignore anymore.
Knowing what’s been holding you back doesn’t automatically give you the courage to move forward. Sometimes it just brings you face-to-face with how little certainty you’re willing to tolerate.
This episode lives in that space.
Standing at the Edge
Right now, I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a massive chasm.
Wide.
Deep.
Unforgiving.
The only way forward is to trust myself enough to take a step into it—to believe that instead of falling, a foundation will rise up to meet me.
And I don’t know if I trust that yet.
The image that keeps coming to mind is the leap of faith from Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Stepping forward without knowing if the bridge is real or imagined.
Except I don’t have a diary telling me what to do.
I don’t have instructions.
I don’t know what outcome is waiting on the other side.
I walked up to the edge with confidence and purpose.
And then I froze.
Fear Doesn’t Look Like Fear
I’ve stood on this edge hundreds of times.
I’ve put my foot out.
I’ve leaned forward.
And just before the moment of commitment, I’ve pulled back.
It’s a cycle I know well. A cycle that feels like safety—but is actually fear.
Fear doesn’t usually announce itself loudly. It disguises itself as logic. As restraint. As waiting for the “right time.”
It convinces you that staying still is responsible—even when the place you’re standing no longer fits.
Living Nonlinear in a Linear World
Nothing about the way I move through life is linear.
My ADHD makes me feel like the curly straw from childhood—colorful, inefficient, exhausting—when all I want is to be the straight one everyone else uses.
Everything takes longer.
Everything costs more energy.
Everything feels heavier.
Frustration takes over, and my brain defaults to distraction. To avoidance. To moving on to something easier.
I know it’s fear.
I know why it’s there.
I know how it works.
And knowing doesn’t magically stop it.
Half a Map Is Still a Map
Lately, it feels like I’m preparing for a trip with only half the map.
The destination has disappeared.
The route is unclear.
The timing is unknown.
But maybe that’s all of life.
So I have a choice.
Do I stay frozen and enter the familiar cycle of self-beratement?
Or do I start tossing pebbles onto the path—one step at a time—to see if something solid appears?
The pebbles, for me, are words.
Words come easily.
What happens after they leave me does not.
I can’t control how they’re interpreted.
I can’t control who stays or who walks away.
All I can decide is whether I’m willing to step forward anyway.
Taking the Step
So I’m taking the step—not because I’m brave, but because it’s the only direction left.
I’m holding my breath.
And I’m hoping the floor rises up to meet me.
This process is happening in real time. I don’t have a neat conclusion. I don’t have a finished framework or a polished answer to what comes next.
I’m learning as I go.
And I’m letting you hear it as it unfolds.
If you recognize yourself here—if the word demoralization landed for you the way it landed for me—I hope you know this:
There is a reason this feels so heavy.
And you are not alone inside it.
I’ll be back soon.
Until then, give yourself grace.