There’s a certain kind of weight that comes with standing on the edge of something new. Not the good kind, like a heavy blanket on a cold night, but the type that sits on your chest and makes it hard to breathe. It wraps around your thoughts and drags them into that familiar whirlpool of what ifs, and I’m not sure I can do this.
And if that weren’t enough, there’s the voice. You know the one. Not the helpful voice that reminds you where you left your keys. The other one—the one that waits until you’re finally feeling confident and then taps you on the shoulder like a nosy neighbour to whisper, “Are you sure you belong here?”
Some days, that voice is the loudest thing in my life. It doesn’t shout. It doesn’t need to. It just nudges. Just asks enough to make me hesitate. And once it wins—once I pull back, or stall, or let the moment pass—it settles in like a cat in a warm patch of sun.
That’s where I was: standing at the edge of something new, caught between the weight of my own hesitation and the voice in my head telling me to stay where it’s safe. My hands were clenched, my mind racing, my doubts piling up like warning signs. Every time I tried to move forward, the tug-of-war started all over again. It’s exhausting, fighting yourself.
But here’s the problem with standing still: the edge doesn’t disappear just because you pretend not to look at it. It’s still there, waiting. And at some point, you realize the waiting might be worse than the jump.
I don’t know what changed. Maybe I finally got tired of my own overthinking. Maybe I realized that no amount of worrying could prepare me for every outcome. Maybe I just whispered, “Enough.” Whatever it was, it didn’t happen in a big, dramatic moment. It started as something small—a quiet thought in the back of my mind: Go. See what happens.
And when I did take that first step, the fear didn’t vanish. It followed me like a shadow. But it got quieter. And with each small action—sending the email, starting the conversation, trying the new thing—I realized how often the voice had been wrong. Most of the disasters it promised never actually happened. Most of the storms were ones I’d created in my own imagination.
We talk a lot about how other people get in our way, but the truth is, we are usually our own biggest obstacle. We hide ideas because someone might not like them. We back down because we might look foolish. We tell ourselves we’re not ready, even though “ready” is usually just a story we make up to avoid discomfort.
So I’ve started talking back to that voice, gently. “I hear you,” I say. “But we’re doing this anyway.” And every time I do, the world opens up a little more. Not in leaps—just in quiet, steady steps.
Maybe that’s the point. Maybe the jump isn’t about being fearless or knowing exactly where you’ll land. Maybe it’s about trusting yourself enough to move, even when you’re unsure. To live in that in-between space where life is messy and unpredictable and real.
So here I am, mid-air. Not entirely sure where I’ll land. But for once, I’m not looking down. I’m looking forward.
The CJBuzz 