Risk taker…no!

When is the last time you took a risk? How did it work out?

The last time I took a risk, it wasn’t skydiving or quitting a job or hopping on a one-way flight with nothing but a backpack and a dream. No. It was quieter than that. Louder than that. It was standing in front of a room full of people I know—not strangers, not random faces I’ll never see again—but them. The ones who’ve seen parts of me, but not thispart. Not the raw truth. Not the whole messy, scarred, and powerful story.

I stood there with my hands shaking just enough to notice, heart pounding in that way that makes you question your sanity. I could’ve played it safe. I could’ve given the polished version. The version that doesn’t make anyone uncomfortable. But that’s not why I was there.

I was there to deliver a message.

I told my story.

And when I did, I wasn’t just recounting a timeline of events—I was ripping open a piece of my chest, offering it to the room, hoping it wouldn’t be too much, or too heavy, or too raw. Hoping it would mean something. Hoping someone out there—just one person—would feel less alone.

Telling your story is terrifying when the room knows your name. When you’ll see them in the hallway next week. When you wonder if they’ll see you differently after this. But I did it anyway. Not because I wasn’t scared. But because I was.

Sometimes the bravest thing you can do is speak the truth in front of familiar faces.

That day, I remembered something: my story isn’t just mine anymore. It’s a light. A mirror. A lifeline. And maybe, just maybe, someone in that room needed to hear it to find their own voice.

So yeah, that was the last time I took a risk.

And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.