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Illustration by Drew Shannon
The piercing squeals caught me off guard. I was in my backyard last summer, watering a cucumber planter sitting three feet off the ground, when I leaned over and saw them: a cluster of newborn rabbits, quivering, their eyes still shut. Five tiny bodies, soft as shadows, huddled together in the earth, completely unaware of the world around them.
For two weeks I watched them at a safe distance. At first they stayed mostly hidden under large leaves and stems, their mother appearing at odd intervals. Instinct had made her careful, but I knew she was watching. I’d see her at the yard’s perimeter, a frozen silhouette at dusk. She never approached while I was there, but her presence was a constant, staring weight. One day, a kit was teetering on the planter’s edge contemplating a jump. I tried to gently guide it with words but it froze, as if deciding whether to trust gravity or stay where it felt safe.
Eventually, one by one, the rabbits leapt from the planter. Some landed smoothly. Others stumbled a bit. The last one lingered the longest, trembling at the edge. I found myself silently urging it on. Come on. You can do it! And then it did.
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That moment has stayed with me. Not only because of the sweetness of baby rabbits, but because of what it made me think about us. Watching them, I realized how much we like to believe that life is built on planning and control. We make lists and budgets and five-year projections. Yet many of the experiences that shape us are leaps into the unknown. Moving to a new city. Starting a relationship. Having children. Each of these moments is its own kind of jump from the planter. The ground is unfamiliar and the risk of falling is real.
When I was younger, I thought courage meant being fearless. Now I realize it means being afraid and moving forward anyway. Watching the rabbits made that clear. They did not leap because they felt safe. They leapt because staying put was not an option.
The planter was never where life was meant to happen. As I watched them, I thought about my own leaps. Some went smoothly. Others left bruises. I remember leaving a job that no longer felt right, even though I had no clear plan for what would come next. My family and friends may have thought I was idealistic. But the alternative was staying where I was, slowly getting stuck in something that only felt safe on the surface. That leap reshaped my career.
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I also vividly remember standing in a hospital room, holding my first newborn son, Benjamin. Nothing could have prepared me for the weight of that responsibility or the sudden shift in identity. There was no practice run and no way to ease into it. Parenthood feels like stepping into something huge without knowing how deep it goes. And somehow, you figure it out.
The rabbits also reminded me that leaps are not always solitary. The mother could not jump for them, but she stayed close, a watchful presence in the yard. In life we handle risks better when we know someone is nearby. A spouse. A friend. A parent. Sometimes even a stranger’s encouragement can matter.
The last rabbit, the one that waited until all the others were gone, clings in my mind. Its hesitation felt familiar, the way we often hold back until circumstances leave us no choice. Fear of failure. Fear of embarrassment. Fear of not knowing what comes next. All of it presses in, telling us to stay where we are.
But eventually, staying put becomes impossible. Growth requires motion. When that last kit finally jumped, I felt a rush of relief, as if I had been holding my breath alongside it. I was not just watching a rabbit. I was watching the part of myself that sometimes hesitates. The part that needs to be reminded that the leap is often where life begins.
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We all live on the edge of our own planters. Some of us leap early, some late. Some land on our feet, others tumble and some need to try again. But the leap itself cannot be avoided. Whether into a new relationship, a new stage of life or a new version of ourselves, we eventually reach the moment where staying put is no longer living.
The next time that moment comes for me, I hope I remember the rabbits. Their trembling. Their courage. I hope I remember that fear is not always a signal to stop, but sometimes a sign that you are standing on the edge of something worth stepping into.
Because in the end, life is less about what we hold onto because it feels safe and more about what we are willing to risk when we finally decide to jump.
Jeffrey Morry lives in Winnipeg.