Are You Ready for a Leap?

How to know when it's time to go.

[It felt right to record this one in my own voice. If that’s your thing, please enjoy.]

There was guilt in my grief.

When the first of my two beloved dogs died—a beautiful, whip-smart Finnish Spitz who had been by my side for at least 12 years—I was not ready. You never are. I remember laying on the floor with my nose to hers, minutes before my husband left to take her to the vet, and I could sense the door closing. This was the dreaded goodbye.

My tears puddled on the hardwood. My words, incoherent as I tried to whisper her back to health. Yet, in that white hot moment I felt my heart caught in a vice, it sprouted wings as well. Something opened in the chasm she was leaving behind. My only momentary reprieve, as the shock of losing her settled in, was in the subconscious realization that maybe a move to Italy could finally happen now. As dramatic as that sounds, a timeline clicked into black and white.

All because of a dog? No. And well—yes.

My girlie girl on one of our many deck hangs.

I share that snippet because big decisions don’t typically happen overnight. Sometimes they do, but more often there’s the gentle planting of a seed lying dormant—fully contained yet not ready to sprout—until external circumstances springboard it into action. This quickening can happen fast, but usually it’s in confirmation of an answer you already knew. You’d have likely known it for a long time, maybe you just weren’t ready for its telling. Life’s harder moments have a way of revealing the grain beneath the chaff.

But how do you know know? When to take action and when to trust in the Not Yet?

This process will be different for everyone, even though the raw materials are the same. It’s easy to see someone make a grand, sweeping decision and assume they’re just brave—or foolhardy, or naive—when really, there’s been an undercurrent of intuition calibrating each way. That’s how it felt for me.

I’d wanted to move to Italy for ages. It had been the dream and the goal post for as long as I can remember, eventually made tangible when I received dual citizenship in 2016. By that time, I had two dogs. Two large dogs that were non-negotiable in terms of bringing abroad with me. The challenge was always how, plus saving the extra $4-7k (minimum) I’d estimated to move them abroad in the Type A fashion I they required.

Back then, it was not the time. Practically, the circumstances weren’t aligned. But I didn’t let that deter me from the someday that still existed. Maybe it starts with a thought, a door that creaks open in the light—what would it look like to take a quick peek across that threshold? If something is nudging you, let it rouse you. It could reveal a part of your life you didn’t realize you were sleeping through.

New places, old doors.

Follow the breadcrumbs.

What’s calling you will call to you every day in small ways. Chances are, if you’re contemplating a major life decision, it didn’t just plop in your head randomly only yesterday. (Though if it did, that’s cool.) Our bodies are pulsing with senses beyond sight and routine. There are places we orient to. Settings where we come alive.

I’ve stalled much of my own growth by trying to feast off a stranger’s plate, instead of focusing on what uniquely nourishes me and where my own curiosities are piqued. How much do you skim over because it’s not what the person next to you would have noticed? You don’t need anyone’s permission to choose a path that seems unclear at the start. It begins with the next right feeling, with that sweet little morsel of intent.

Eventually, enough breadcrumbs take over the dish. Or, they lead you to the witch’s house.¹ Either way, you’re not where you started and life will have created something in the wake of that path. Let the smaller decisions build muscle for the larger ones that may follow, and they won’t seem as heavy when the time comes to make them. We visited Bassano at least six times before moving here, and each time was a breadcrumb. How or what came next, in those instances, didn’t matter—but we never would have gotten to the sixth visit had we simply brushed aside the first.

From a distance, the mountain appears large and looming. Step by step, it’s just your feet in some grass.

Know the leap will change you. It’s the only certain thing.

Change is never easy. As much as it’s a sign of growth and health, the known feels safe—even if it can also feel a little stifling. To sense all the edges and have a grasp on every angle is not what it means to leap. So, before a leap, name what it is you’re doing. It’s not a shuffle. It’s not a slide. It’s not even a long stretch.

To leap is to fly. It’s to thrust your body in an unnatural direction and fling your limbs into the wild open air. Kids do this all the time, with the bumps and scrapes to prove it—along with the unbridled joy. Adults learn to play it safe. Eventually, our dreams follow suit.

Not exactly a leap, but a wild flinging (flailing?) nonetheless.

I think the biggest Go moment for me came down to this truth: that I was ready to be changed. I recognized there may be bumps and bruises, but even still, I longed to become the woman who was on the other side of that leap.

When my dog died, there was a comfort there that had suddenly been ripped away. That void exposed other voids, ones I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. Regardless of how we may feel or how our lives may look, it’s impossible to protect all the edges or cover every single angle, every single time. No way. There are gaping voids in life—places where our egos end and situations we never see coming. Control is not the point. (Though how easy it is to believe!)

What is the point? I’m still discovering that. The breadcrumbs continue to appear. The leap is not a magical solve, neither is it a quick-fix or the goal in and of itself. But leaping will land you somewhere new, maybe with a few green stains on your clothes and fresh dirt under your fingernails. You’re clutching at life with both hands now. Your heart will race; eventually, your breath will steady. It’ll be quieter, far from the crowd as you take stock of your new terrain—but the mountain will look a little closer. You’ll find your feet. There, the next step is all yours.

1. And talk about standing out from the crowd: https://thelosangelesbeat.com/2019/01/hansel-and-gretel-storybook-architecture-the-witchs-house-of-beverly-hills/