On paper, I’m not a risk taker.

On paper, I’m the girl who lived in the rural town for 20 years, who spent her childhood building  treehouses, leaning against the warm expanse of a old gelding’s round stomach, laying on  pinewood floors reading piles of library books.

On paper, I’m the teenager who went to the same school as all the other girls. Who did the homework, who showed up, who laughed at the same in jokes as you.

On paper, I graduated from high school. I went to uni, made friends with people who would change my life. I partied. I danced. I kissed the right boys (most of the time). I did what I was supposed to. What was expected of me. And I liked it.

On paper, I’m about to do something that so many others have done. I am travelling a path well travelled by others. On paper, my impending adventure  may seem generic. But to me, everything I have ever done has been leading to this. It explains the hot cold rush I feel whenever I gaze at a plane in the morning sky. It’s the edge of the unknown.

It feels like a risk. But not doing it feels like a bigger one.