A chain of lakes runs through the heart of Uptown Minneapolis. Million-dollar homes line the lakefront streets, and runners and bikers take pathways and bridges nestled against the shores. One particular bridge is hidden from sight with a steep drop, deep water, and a cobblestone wall perfect for scaling back to the top after a quick plunge. Around my sophomore year of high school, this bridge became a trendy destination for thrill-seekers. Remember that old adage your parents used about trying to be popular? “Well, if all your friends jumped off a bridge, would you jump too?” At sixteen, we proved the answer was “Yeah Mom, duh.”
On a muggy summer afternoon, my buddy Joe and I drove into the city to investigate the hype. We peered over the bridge’s edge — nothing standing in the way of the water but our reflections. Joe’s face looked excited. Mine looked a bit peaky.
In this moment I remembered that I’m actually terrified of heights. Every nightmare I’ve ever had was about falling, besides the recent one where I got lost at a Donald Trump rally.        Joe said I should go first. I took off my sandals, perched myself on the ledge, took a deep breath, and froze. Too cool to be scared, all I could think to do was ask Joe to count me off. So I asked, and he did. 3, 2, 1.
The fall was exhilarating, the water a cold freedom. I swam out of the way, he followed suit, and we scaled the cobblestone wall to go again. At this point I knew it was safe, but I still needed an extra push. So I asked again. Joe counted me off. The third time, though, he didn’t.
“I’m not going to count you off,” he said. “You just have to jump.”
He was right. With a deep breath and a quick prayer, I jumped without saying a word.
This was the day I learned I was never afraid of heights. And I didn’t mind the fall. I was just afraid to jump. My biggest jump yet: At the beginning of my senior year, I chose to come out as gay.
I spent my entire adolescence telling myself that I was straight — convinced that what I was feeling was just a phase. Every date felt wrong, every dance awkward. Conversations about sex filled me with anxiety. It wasn’t until my sophomore year of college that I was finally able to let go of all that and be honest with myself. I spent two years looking myself in the mirror every day, telling myself, “You’re gay, and that’s perfectly fine. And one day, people are going to love you for it.”
Yet, after two years of building up my confidence I still felt frustrated. I hadn’t told anyone, and I had no real plans to. I had no practice living as part of a marginalized community. There I was, peering over the edge, staring down at the water — too afraid to jump, and too cool to tell anyone I was scared.
Then one day, fall term of senior year, I remembered what Joe said up on that ledge some six years prior. “I’m not going to count you off. You just have to jump.” His voice was stern when he said it, as if it was this obvious truth.
For the next several days, that phrase was all I heard.
The more I heard it in my head, the more I knew it to be true. There would be no special moment telling me it was time to come out. If I was going to start living my life authentically, the way I needed to, then I’d have to make that choice — a choice to obliterate my comfort zone, to share the thing I’d always feared, even hated, most about myself. This choice comes with no manual, and no guarantee of success. It was simply a steep jump into cold water.
So I jumped and told my family, friends, and colleagues. At one point I told the sales clerk at my co-op. I started dating. I had no idea what the consequences would be, but I knew that not taking that leap would have been too stifling to bear.
After that, everyone jumped in after me. My parents expressed their unconditional love and support. My roommates decided it was their new mission to eliminate homophobic behavior in their social lives. My siblings sent cards of congratulations and made donations to anti-bullying campaigns in my name. My sister-in-law called me in tears to say how happy she was that her children would grow up with me as a role model. My friends took me out to celebrate. When I’d tell people, they’d react to my vulnerability by matching it, sharing stories they had never shared with anyone else, detailing their unique experiences that they feared no one would understand. In one week I saw more compassion, vulnerability, and respect than I’d seen in my entire life.
Back in Minneapolis, I didn’t enjoy standing on that bridge looking down at the water, but at least I knew how the concrete felt under my feet. The moment I jumped, I forgot all about the fear of the fall, and the familiarity of the ledge. The fall was a rush of excitement, and the plunge was exactly what I needed. Swimming underneath the bridge, all that fear just felt silly—like a waste of time. And now, when I think of all the time I could have spent living authentically and happily if I’d only mustered up the courage to come out, I wish I’d done it much sooner.
If I could write a letter to myself back then, it’d go something like this:
As college comes to a close, and you wait for your diploma to be framed, you’ll be faced with a lot of free time to wonder: What’s next? After all, you’ve majored in music. Everyone you’ve ever met has asked you, “What are you going to do with that?”         
The answer won’t be easy. After four years in Eugene, and about 17 years in school, you’re going to have to step out of your comfort zone here. Chances are the Eugene Symphony won’t hire us all.
Whatever the next step is, it will test your courage. It will disrupt the familiarity of your life. And to make matters worse, that next step might not be successful. Auditions fail. Employers make cuts. Symphonies run out of money. But opening yourself up to that failure, pointing your life and career in a direction that feels right, will be so much better than staying where you are now.
There’s plenty of time to spend dwelling on fear and failure. That’s part of taking the leap. No one’s going to count you off. You just have to jump.