It’s not scary to leap. It’s scary to land.
A leap is not a jump. A jump is a blip that doesn’t change your location. A leap is not a hop. A hop is an action of surprise or energy. A leap is not a dive. A dive is desperate because you have little control over your trajectory. A leap is not a lunge. Lunges are movements of inches, barely risking anything.
A leap is movement from a calculated starting point off into the unknown.
Imagine running to the edge of a building. You’re Jason Bourne being chased by the problems of your life. You know that you’re aiming for the rooftop across the alleyway. You’ve seen the gap between buildings from below and you have a picture in your head of the layout of the next rooftop.
You won’t be able to see the other rooftop until after you leap. You don’t know for sure that you’ll be able to leap that distance. A new, more dangerous enemy may await your arrival. You might hurt be hurt by some hidden danger on that next rooftop. You might wish you could turn back halfway, but it will be too late.
Are you willing to risk a leap to the next rooftop to get beyond your current predicament? Even if it’s impossible to know exactly where you’ll land?
At this point, a lot of us stop.
While life’s current problems are chasing us, it’s hard to maneuver into the unknown unless those current problems are unbearable.
Even when we know there are opportunities to learn, grow and advance, we feel a fear of the unknown. We reason with ourselves that it’s better to face the problems we can see. We can put a name to these problems. The trajectory into the abyss is terrifying.
But there is such joy in the leap. There are few feelings better than weightlessness. It’s one of the reasons we love swinging rides and roller coasters. That moment of freedom where, for a brief second, no force is holding us down. It’s why the most exciting part of watching a football fly is when the ball hangs in the air before it turns downward. We love the top of the leap—the space between control and consequence.
Then we have to fall. As Buzz Lightyear would say a leap is not flying, but falling with style. It’s bracing for the correction of gravity. We may come back to Earth gracefully or we might create a big splash as the Olympic diving judges bemoan your poor form entering the pool.
To be successful, we need to embrace the fall and the gravity of the situation. We need to know, as fast as possible, how close to our target we’re going to land. That way, we can move on to the next leap.
Leaping is about muscle memory. It’s not an art form. Leaping for the first time at a tiny target sets you up for failure. You’re not a professional yet. You don’t have the confidence to hit that ledge, and you know that not making it can lead to a painful fall. Take a leap, stick with the trajectory and then try again.
The best way to leap is toward a target so big that you’re bound to hit it. You can succeed if you leap with the intention of learning. There are lessons in both landing on the pavement with knee pain and splashing down into the ocean after a flight to the moon.
Don’t try to change course halfway through the fall—it’s too late. The more you struggle, the bigger the disaster. You will have to correct your mistakes from the ground. We can only control so much and half the battle of leaping is living with the uncertain landing.
Take a leap of possibility. Look to the sky and bound for your next rooftop. Enjoy the rush of rising through the air. Take in the view during that serene moment where you surrender control to the forces around you. Savor that feeling of excitement in your stomach as you begin to fall. No matter where you land, you’ll find your footing, and create the confidence to leap again.