Life has a funny way of presenting moments that make us pause and think—moments that challenge our routines, habits, and fears. This past week has been a whirlwind of reflection, ranging from faith to the myth of Icarus, and even my hesitation to take risks in my professional life. Each moment has added another layer to my ongoing journey of self-discovery.

On Sunday I attended service for the first time in a while. I didn’t stay for the sermon, so I can’t speak to how it unfolded (not that I’m likely to watch it on YouTube later). But the real value of the morning was in the conversations I had with the young adult leaders. I arrived too early—10:30 AM instead of the actual start time—and found myself lingering in the lobby. There, I bumped into Molly, a vibrant force of nature who somehow balances hyperactivity and composure with ease. Our conversation turned to faith, and I admitted my flip-flopping beliefs. She asked why I come to church. Without hesitation, I answered, “Self-discovery.”

That’s the core of it. Church, for me, is less about sermons and more about moments of introspection. I’ve spent most of my time there journaling—just putting thoughts on paper, trying to make sense of the noise in my head. But I also shared my frustrations about the group’s dynamics during sermon recaps. It often feels like a room full of "yes men," where everyone echoes the same sentiment without challenge or depth. I wish it were more Socratic, a space where ideas could be pushed and questioned.

In the early hours of Monday morning, I woke up suddenly, my mind racing with a thought: How am I like Icarus? The Greek myth tells of a man who flew too close to the sun, despite warnings, and fell to his demise. As I reflected on the year, I saw the parallels. I’ve always believed I could control my bad habits, arrogantly thinking I was immune to the temptations that ensnare others. But I was wrong. This year showed me how naïve I’ve been, losing myself in the pursuit of fitting in and saying yes to things I didn’t truly want. The irony of Icarus’s story struck me—how Daedalus, his father, created the very wings that became his son’s downfall. The thing meant to liberate them was what ultimately led to tragedy. It made me wonder: What are the wings in my life? What am I flying too close to? And perhaps more importantly, what am I avoiding out of fear?

Those same thoughts came back into my head on Wednesday. The fear of starting a business. It’s been on my mind for weeks, yet I’m avoiding by fear—fear of failure, fear of taking a leap that might not pay off. This topic even came up during last week’s sermon recap, where we discussed the risks we’re afraid to take.

It’s funny how all these thoughts align. My friend Ryan texted me about his own aspirations of leadership and starting something new, though he’s unsure of what that might be. I sent him a quote that’s been rattling around in my head: “The ironic tragedy is that life must be lived forward, but can only be understood in reverse.” That quote feels especially relevant now. At 23, I’m constantly comparing myself to young founders on Instagram, feeling like I’m wasting my potential. That feeling was amplified after a disappointing call with my senior manager about a PowerPoint I’d put together. His critique left me deflated, questioning my competence and worth.

Yet, deep down, I know that failure is a necessary part of growth. It’s ironic, really—I fear failure but understand it’s the only path to success. What does that say about me? Am I too cowardly to embrace discomfort? I talk about wanting change but do little to make it happen. The thought of reaching the end of my life with regrets is terrifying, yet here I am, stuck in my comfort zone.

If I’ve learned anything this week, it’s that faith, self-reflection, and risk-taking are all intertwined. Faith isn’t just about belief in a higher power; it’s also about believing in yourself—trusting that the leaps you take will lead to growth, even if they come with stumbles. And while Icarus may have fallen, his story serves as a reminder to find balance: to dream boldly but tread carefully, to take risks but remain grounded. So here’s to flying—not recklessly, but with intention. Here’s to building wings strong enough to carry me through the risks I’m too afraid to take today, knowing that one day, I’ll look back and understand the purpose of it all.