Leap of Faith

Leap of Faith

I've always been a risk taker,

Caffeine after eight is my middle name. 

Not going to college? That's a big risk according to the world. 

It's a big risk according to my parents. 

It's a big risk according to my friends. 

But to me? It's a big leap of faith. 

Ever since I started playing music at the young age of seven, I've wanted to be the girl Elvis. 

Or in adult terms, a musician. 

My brother? My biggest fan. 

He was the only one who knew about this secret passion of mine. 

We would sit at the bottom of a mountain, along wth thousands of words, waiting for an avalanche of notes and melodies to bury us in a song. 

His joyous, booming laugh were the bass notes to each word I sang or strummed. 

Our drives to and from school consisted of belting lyrics to any song that came on the radio.  

But when he died? Everything changed. 

Music was my risk, but now I hid behind my four friends that provided me with walls of safety and stability. 

Music was my adventure, throwing rocks at the mountain of notes waiting for a piece to break off. 

I couldn't even find  a map to locate that mountain now. 

So I stopped. 

I told no one, played for no one, but I played for myself. 

Humming in the middle of the night to stop the waterfall of endless tears,

A cloud of guilt everytime I picked up my guitar to play, because why should I enjoy something that made me happy, if my brother wasn't there to make it happier? 

This continued on for about six months until I asked for a ukelele for Christmas. 

My parents happily obliged my request, and soon I was that joyful, little girl learning how to play the guitar at the age of seven. 

But still, I played for no one. 

I was insecure-- no one has told me they believed in me for over a year, because no one besides my brother knew about my secret love. 

I formed oceans of insecurites that are so deep I doubt they'll ever dry out. 

But one particular Sunday, I mustered up enough confidence to step on stage and play in the worship band, and after that service a lady told me the world needed to hear my voice, and I shouldn't let satan give me doubt. 

I went home that afternoon and I cried. 

I cried because I never thought I would hear someone say that ever again, I cried because I gave up the one thing that truly makes me happy, but most importantly, I cried for all the people I haven't helped yet because I was too caught up in my own sorrows and self-pity, I never once thought about what others are dealing with. 

I cried because I was still too insecure to let people hear my voice. 

Still, I continued on playing when no one else was around-- not even in front of my parents. 

I longed for the confidence and courage to be a singer. 

Until recently, I hid behind my pain and doubts, selfishly hiding my voice and story from those who need to hear it. 

So when I tell you that I don't want to go to college, but I probably will anyway? 

It's my insecurities. 

I'm stick of being held back by the fear of failing. 

Behind my filter, I am real. 

I'm the risk-taker me,

The me that dances in empty store aisles,

The me that drinks tea every morning, and can't function if I don't. 

Behind my filter I am a girl that acts like Beyonce in the shower, 

A girl that watches cat videos with her grandma, 

A girl that reads a book in a day, 

But most importantly a girl that isn't perfect. 

I'm not afraid to trip and fall publicly, but yet I am petrified of doing that metaphorically. 

Behind my filter, I am many different things: 

A musician

A scientist

A speech therapist

A chef

A photographer

A laugher

A smiler

A dreamer

And most of all, I'm a girl that wants to touch hearts.

Even if it is just one. 

Thank you.