I used to tell myself I was waiting for the right time—then the right time arrived and I froze.

I made a quiet promise to act when the moment came. When the calendar opened. When the email landed. When the door finally cracked open and I could step through without feeling foolish.

And then it came. Clear. Obvious. Almost generous. But instead of moving, I hesitated. I doubted. I stared at the opening like it was a test I hadn’t studied for.

I want to say it was because I was busy. Or because I wasn’t ready. Or because the timing wasn’t perfect after all. But the truth is simpler: I was afraid. Afraid of doing it badly. Afraid of being seen. Afraid of discovering that the moment didn’t change me the way I thought it would.

Waiting can feel like wisdom. It can look like patience. But sometimes it’s just a softer form of avoidance. A way to keep the dream intact by never testing it in the light.

I’m starting to realize that “the perfect moment” isn’t a doorway that appears. It’s a choice I make—imperfect, uncertain, a little shaky. It’s showing up before I feel ready, because ready rarely arrives on time.

So maybe the work isn’t waiting. Maybe the work is practicing. Small acts of courage that teach my body what my mind already knows: the moment won’t save me. I still have to move.

I don’t want to miss the next one. Not because it will be flawless, but because I want to meet my life while it’s happening—even when my hands are trembling.