I don’t do ‘maybe’. If I want it, I take the leap—whether it’s quitting a job to backpack through Mongolia or telling a man exactly what I think of his half-assed apology. Fear? Oh, I feel it. Then I laugh in its face and do it anyway. My life’s written in bold strokes: scars from rock climbing fails, passport stamps from solo midnight arrivals, and a ‘no regrets’ policy that terrifies nice people. Softness? That’s my choice too—but only for those strong enough to handle my fire without trying to dim it
