After the hurt, before the leap

She said she hadn’t loved anyone in six years.

Not because no one came along. Not because she didn’t want to. But because the last time she gave her heart away, it came back to her in pieces.

She spoke about him — the one who came before. The one she trusted enough to build a life around. He was kind in the beginning, thoughtful even. But somewhere along the way, the warmth faded. The promises grew silent. And when it ended, it wasn’t with a fight or a final goodbye. It ended with absence. With the slow retreat of someone who had already left long before he actually did.

So she learned to live with less. Less risk. Less hope. Less heart.

Until recently. She met someone. Not someone extraordinary. Just someone present. The kind of presence that feels safe — not in an exciting way, but in a steady one. He wasn’t trying to fix her or hurry her along. He simply stayed. Listened. Waited.

And that terrified her more than anything.

What if I get hurt again? she asked.

There was a pause on the radio, long enough for the static to fill the silence. I had been listening to that late-night show for quite some time. For us regulars, it was a question we’d heard more times than we could count.

“You might,” he said. “But you also might not. And either way, that risk — that possibility — is where life happens. Getting hurt means you showed up. It means you tried. But regret? Regret lives in the hearts of those who never even knocked on the door.”

I don’t know her name. I’ll probably never hear her voice again. But something about her stayed with me long after I turned off the radio.

Maybe because I’ve asked that same question before.

Maybe we all have.

We build these walls thinking they protect us, not realizing they also keep the good things out. We say we’re just being careful, that we’re waiting for the right time, the right person, the right feeling. But sometimes, the truth is simpler: we’re just scared.

Scared of being wrong again. Scared of giving too much and receiving too little. Scared of standing at the edge of something beautiful, only to watch it fall apart.

And maybe we don’t talk about this enough. How healing isn’t always graceful. How sometimes, it takes years just to feel normal again, years to stop measuring new people by the damage of old ones. No one tells you that love, the second time around, often looks more like quiet courage than fireworks.

No one tells you that trust, once broken, doesn’t come back like a light switch. It returns slowly, like sunlight creeping into a room that’s been dark too long. First you see the outline of things. Then the colors. Then, eventually, the warmth.

But the thing is, we can survive heartbreak. Most of us already have. What we don’t always survive are the things we never tried. The words we never said. The hands we never reached for. The chances we were too afraid to take.

That’s what the woman on the radio reminded me.

That sometimes, being brave isn’t about grand gestures or sweeping declarations. Sometimes, it’s just choosing to show up again. To answer the message. To say yes to coffee. To keep the door open, even just a little.

Healing doesn’t mean the fear goes away. It means we move forward despite it.

I think about her sometimes — wonder if she ever called him back, if she ever let him in.

But more than that, I think about all the people carrying their own what ifs. People who keep their hearts locked behind old pain, who replay their past like a warning instead of a lesson.

And I get it. Opening up again is not easy. It means giving someone the power to hurt you and trusting they won’t. It means risking comfort for connection, silence for sincerity. But maybe love was never meant to be safe. Maybe it was always meant to be a leap.

Because what if it works? What if they stay? What if this time, someone chooses you, fully and without fear?

We don’t get to control how things end. But we do get to choose whether we show up at the beginning.

And when the story is over, when all is said and done, I’d rather look back with a heart that’s been broken a few times than one that stayed untouched — perfect, but untouched.

Because a heart that never dared is a heart that never lived.

And maybe the bravest thing we can do is to try again.