Many people know that Marc and I grew up in Maine—and that we now live in South Carolina. When we moved here (ten years ago this summer!), it wasn’t because we had any certainty. We were moving to a place that ticked the boxes on what we were looking for (homeschool laws, airports, longer sunshiny months, children’s theater, and jazz education were at the top of our list).

Marc had visited twice. The kids and I came once. We were committed to renting a home for our first year while we got our feet under us.

We expected we would experience culture shock. It was one of the reasons we moved. We didn’t feel that, for the parenting we were called to, we were stewarding our kids well if they only experienced a mono-cultural growing up. That conviction was shaped by Marc’s and my own childhoods—filled with moves before leaving home—and our shared love of traveling to new places and learning aboutculture and people.

I remember sitting in the VRBO condo that we had rented for our family scouting trip. It was in June. In the middle of a HOT snap (the opposite—very opposite—of the cold snaps we grew up with). With a broken air conditioner.

We’d had a great visit. Our oldest had auditioned for the jazz program we hoped to make available for him. We’d visited the Children’s Theater. But I couldn’t sleep—and not just because of the weather. Finally, at 2 a.m., I woke Marc up. In tears, I pled with him: I don’t think I can do this. This is so big.

He listened. He wasn’t pushing me or the kids. I could have put the parking brakes on right then.

But the thing is, I knew there were other significant moments when I had uttered, I don’t think I can do this. Previous moves. Other jobs. Each birth of each child (in the stage called transition) was signaled with that same phrase. I know that this is often my call to action. And I know myself well enough to sense when it’s truly a call to stop. (It’s the gift and curse of being intuitive. Thank goodness Marc trusts my gut as much—sometimes more—than I do.)

As the birds began to wake up that morning, Marc and I reached an aligned focus: we would rather apologize to our kids for making the move than to always wonder what if we had moved. We knew we could do anything for a year. That was the initial commitment we were making. Even if it all went sideways, we were poised to get all the learning out of the experiment that we could.

We had to remind ourselves of this over the next eight weeks—selling our Maine home, finding a rental near the Fine Arts School our oldest had been accepted to, with the right number of bedrooms, and that would allow us to bring the cat. (There was ONE available on our timeline in all of Greenville County.)

Ten years later, the move still provides us with plenty to process and learn from.

What strikes me, looking back, is how little certainty we had—and yet how much possibility was present.

We weren’t moving because everything was lined up neatly. We weren’t moving because we had guaranteed outcomes. We were moving because the possibility of what might open up in this place seemed worth the risk.

That’s the thing about possibility: it rarely comes with assurance. It often feels like standing on the edge of something vast—exciting, but also terrifying.

In leadership, we often wait for certainty before we move. We want the data, the plan, the ROI, the buy-in. And while some of that is necessary, possibility doesn’t wait for permission. Possibility whispers: What if?

• What if your team could accomplish more than you expect?
• What if that new role is exactly the growth you’ve been resisting?
• What if the disruption you’re facing is actually an open door?

Looking back on that sleepless night in the South Carolina condo, I realize that “I don’t think I can do this” was actually the marker that something important was happening. For me, it’s a signal that I’m at the edge of growth. For Marc, it was a chance to stand beside me and say: We don’t need all the answers. Let’s take the step in front of us and trust we’ll learn what we need along the way.

That’s what leaders do too. We rarely get to lead with full certainty. Instead, we choose – we dare –  to take the step toward possibility—for ourselves, for our teams, and for the future we’re stewarding.

Reflection

• Where in your leadership are you waiting for certainty before you act?
• What possibilities might open if you dared to step forward anyway?

Journeys don’t begin with guarantees.  They begin with possibility.