Leaping into Fear

A Love Letter to Courage

A few years ago, I wrote this reflection after returning from a solo trip to Jamaica. I was navigating heartbreak, uncertainty, and the quiet unraveling of trust. What I didn’t realize then was how deeply this experience would shape the way I now walk through fear—not by avoiding it, but by getting curious and leaping anyway.

Today it reminds me that healing isn’t linear, and sometimes the leaps we take in the past are still teaching us in the present.

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Leaping into Fear: A Love Letter to Courage

Right now, I’m in the thick of healing.
Every morning, I wake up wrestling with discomfort—an emotional fear I can’t quite name but feel everywhere. The kind of fear that settles in your chest when trust is broken. When the person you believed would care for and protect you simply… doesn’t.

That kind of loss doesn’t just break your heart. It makes you question your instincts, your choices, and the safety of trusting again.

And yet, I’ve never been someone who sits still in pain.
I claw, I climb, I move.

So a few months ago, in the rawness of that heartbreak, I booked a solo trip to Jamaica.

No big plans. Just an apartment in Negril, a carry-on bag, and the hope that maybe—just maybe—I’d find some peace.

What I found was so much more than rest.

I had one real goal for this trip: to visit the Blue Hole Mineral Spring. I’d seen a few solo travelers rave about jumping into its 35-foot-deep, mineral-rich water from a cliff above. The idea terrified me—and that’s exactly why I wanted to do it.

Somewhere in me, I believed that if I could push myself physically, I could begin pushing myself emotionally too. Maybe the courage to jump could ripple into the rest of my life.

The day at the spring was full of quiet gifts. A kind Auntie taught me how to eat a mango Jamaican-style. A guide named Tom showed me the countryside from a rooftop and checked in to make sure I felt safe the whole time. I chatted with the bartender after my first dip, easing into conversations with strangers the way I always do—curious, open, grateful.

Then came the jump.

Tom led me to the ledge. The instructions were simple: walk to the edge and go.
But as soon as I looked down, my body froze.

Three times the guide counted me down.
Three times I stood there like a mannequin, unable to move.

At one point, I stepped back and told them I couldn’t do it. My legs refused. My fear took over.

Then one of the guides offered a compromise: start smaller.
Try jumping from halfway up the ladder—about 14 feet.
That I could do.

And when I did? I realized it wasn’t as terrifying as I had imagined. I was ready to try again—this time, from the top.

I climbed up, stepped to the edge, heard the countdown—3, 2, 1—and leapt.

The freefall was disorienting. The water slapped my skin. My arms ached and my stomach twisted.
But when I surfaced, I was smiling.

Not because the jump was easy.
But because I did it scared.

I had trusted the people guiding me.
Trusted my own body.
Trusted that I’d be okay—even if I couldn’t fully see the bottom.

Now that I’m back home, heart still tender, navigating the deep grief of abandonment, I carry that moment with me like a talisman.

Because the truth is, this heartbreak has been its own kind of cliff.
The unknowns, the losses, the letting go of what I thought would be—it’s all terrifying.

But that jump taught me something vital:
Fear doesn't mean stop.
Fear can mean pay attention.
Be curious.
And leap anyway.

I’m still healing.
Still learning to trust again—myself most of all.

But I know now: I’ve made harder jumps.
And I survived.

Maybe this is just the beginning of the freefall.
But something tells me the landing will be worth it.