What’s Your Risky Risk?
This week, I did something kind of risky.
I packed up my trusty Toyota Corolla with everything I own and started a solo journey across the United States.
My car—her name is Lulu, by the way—was packed so full there was barely room for me, let alone anyone else.
Right now, I’m in Colorado, catching up with old friends, drinking too much coffee, and adjusting to the altitude.
Soon, I’ll be crossing Kansas, Missouri, Tennessee… and eventually landing in Asheville, North Carolina—my new home.
It’s a big move.
And it’s a solo one.
As I drive across wide open highways and wind through mountain passes, my mind keeps returning to something my mom said before I left.
We were sitting side by side in her golf cart on her 8-acre ranch—just the two of us, watching the sun dip behind the trees—when she turned to me and said:
“Risk is risky.”
At first, I laughed. Like, yeah, obviously.
But then I paused…
Because it’s actually a pretty profound truth.
Doing hard things is hard.
Getting outside your comfort zone is uncomfortable.
And yep—risk is risky.
Especially when you're someone who’s experienced trauma or learned from a young age that safety = control, predictability, or not rocking the boat.
In those cases, taking a risk—even a small one—can activate all sorts of inner parts.
The anxious part.
The catastrophizing part.
The part that wants to slam on the brakes and crawl back into bed.
Sound familiar?
As a therapist and coach, I see this every day.
For one person, taking a risk might mean moving across the country.
For another, it might mean setting a boundary, saying no, or letting themselves be truly seen for the first time.
There’s no universal scale for what’s “risky enough” to count.
Because risk is relative.
It’s deeply personal.
And it’s not my job to judge someone’s edge.
It’s my job to meet people where they are, and help them move forward—at a pace that feels safe enough—with the right support, the right tools, and the right internal resourcing to make it possible.
Just like my Corolla (hey, Lulu 👋🏽), I’m not here to dictate where someone should go.
My job is to help people get where they want to go—safely, steadily, and with some comfort snacks in the passenger seat.
Now don’t get me wrong—there are bumps along the way.
Just ask me how windy it got in Wyoming. 😳
(I was gripping the steering wheel like my life depended on it.)
But that’s part of it.
When you choose to do something different—when you choose growth—you’re choosing movement. And movement can feel unsteady.
Especially if you're used to staying small, staying quiet, or staying in survival mode.
But here’s what I know:
The more resourced you are—the more connected you are to your body, your boundaries, your parts, your support system—the more you can hold the wobble without falling apart.
And from that place, the risk becomes a stretch, not a trauma reenactment.
You’re not forcing.
You’re choosing.
That’s the difference between re-traumatizing yourself and reclaiming your power.
For me, this move to Asheville represents a stretch.
A shake-up.
An expansion of self.
I’m following what feels right in this season of life, and yeah—it comes with risk.
But it also comes with growth.
With freedom.
With truth.
And to me, that kind of risk is worth it.
So let me ask you:
Is there something floating around in your mind or heart right now that feels a little too risky?
Maybe it’s:
Setting a boundary in a relationship
Starting therapy or coaching
Saying how you really feel
Moving your body in a new way
Leaving something that no longer fits
Trying something new, even if you don’t know how it’ll turn out
If something came to mind just now, take that as a nudge.
A whisper from your Adult Self, saying:
“Hey… I know it’s scary, but we can do this.”
You don’t have to jump in the deep end.
You don’t have to do it all alone.
But you can take one tiny step.
You can listen to that inner part that’s been longing for something different.
You can support yourself through the discomfort in a new way—one that honors your nervous system and your past, but doesn’t let it dictate your future.
You can say,
“This is risky…
But it’s the kind of risk I’m willing to take.”
And I’ll be over here, cheering you on with my fully-loaded Corolla and a heart full of compassion for every bumpy mile.
If you feel called, hit reply and tell me what your "risky risk" is right now—I’d genuinely love to hear. 💟