What joy of significance has ever been safe? Giving birth to a child? Taking a road trip? Kissing that dark rogue stranger? Funding a grassroots venture to benefit the world?

There is no risk-free life. Staying inside in your bed is a risk. Taking the bus is a risk. Staying in a marriage or job that crushes your soul, though isn’t “that bad” is a risk. There is no opting out of
taking risks in this lifetime. You only get to choose which risk you’ll take.

And my best rocket-fuel expert tip here? Or at least the one at the tip of my tongue?

Bet on the sure thing. Bet on love.

Spend your chits on faith. Take the road that makes you stronger. Going after things you want, whether or not you get them, makes you stronger.

A life of thriving requires us to choose between the “illusion of safety” and the ultimate safety.

The ultimate safety is the life that calls you. Sometimes, you don’t even know what you feel drawn to do. Sometimes, you only have exhausting questions. Well, then start here: begin to move away from whatever steals your spirit.

Let me tell you a story about walking in the direction that seemed more immediately uncomfortable. It wasn’t an easy choice. But I’m a logical girl, and choosing life is always the right answer.

Many years ago, I went hiking with a long-haired poetic boyfriend, somewhere in the wilds of Oregon. We scampered along the trail for hours, in the cool green of the forest. Then, we practically fell to our knees and sang the gospel, upon seeing the Pacific Ocean at the end of the trail. This is what happens when you live in land-locked Colorado. At the first sight of a body of water, you act like puppies. Giddy as we were, we ignored the time. The sun gradually evaporated from the sky. It was a time of year that turned very cold once the sun set.

Just like that, we realized we were in danger.

We’d both dressed lightly in shorts and tee shirts. We hadn’t intended to hike this far. We had no camping supplies, jackets, pants or milk chocolate, so, really, I couldn’t see how we were going to survive. The moment we saw that draining sun, we started high tailing it back to the car.

The light grew dimmer. We walked faster. My lawyer brain kicked in seeing possible liabilities everywhere, which is oh so helpful, when your heart is already pounding so fast you know the vultures are already taking dibs on your body and choosing a wine. Then halfway out of the forest, we heard an unusual knocking noise. Something didn’t feel right. Something didn’t feel right at all.

The creepy, unsettling noise continued. “Maybe it’s a moose,” said Kir eagerly, looking around. He was one of those people that thought seeing wildlife was a good thing. He stopped and dawdled. Type A to the core, I power-walked up ahead and peered into the trees. I saw darkness behind them, almost a blackness. Then in the hideous slow motion of terror, I realized that the darkness was not some nice woodsy, amorphous darkness, but rather a shape peering at me, the shape of a bear.

Now, for the record, I am not the type of woman that looks at a bear in fascination, even at a zoo. I grew up in Brooklyn, New York. On my best day, I am way more comfortable pressed up against a thousand sweaty strangers in a subway car, than witnessing firsthand actual wildlife in a forest.

I instinctively walked backwards on the trail cautiously, like a cartoon character. “It’s a bear,” I said to Kir, terror and adrenaline lighting up my senses. “It’s a goddamn bear.” As though there were any other kind.

We started realizing the horrible Zen predicament of it all. We had to walk back past the bear to get out of the woods.