I’ve always been the kind of person who steps into the fire knowing it might burn me, because the warmth of desire has always felt worth the risk of ash. Safety is practical, it is steady, it is predictable. But passion—passion is alive. It rattles through your bones, wakes the blood, sharpens every sense, and makes me remember that this body, this fleeting existence, was never meant to be lived in quiet resignation.
People often tell me that passion is dangerous. They say it flares up fast, it blinds judgement, it leaves scars. They’re not wrong. I have loved people who left me hollow, I have chased dreams that collapsed beneath me, I have thrown myself into moments that ended in tears on the bathroom floor. And still, even with the bruises and regrets. I find myself choosing passion over safety every damn time.
Because safety never taught me how strong I am. Safety never cracked me open and forced me to face the deepest corners of myself. Safety kept me comfortable, yes, but it also kept me numb. Passion may burn, but it makes me feel. And for me, feeling is survival.
When I think about the moments that shaped me, the ones that pulse in memory like wild songs, none of them were safe. They were raw. They were the times I said yes when I should have said no, the times I stayed when I should have walked away, the times I leapt into love, into adventure, into reckless creation, without a plan for how to land. Safety would have told me to stay still, to protect myself, to calculate every risk. Passion told me to leap and trust that the ground would rise to meet me.
And here’s the truth: even when the ground didn’t catch me, even when I fell hard and lost, I discovered more about myself in that freefall than I ever could have sitting in the waiting room of safety. Pain strips away illusions. It tests endurance. It reveals where resilience lives. Passion, with all its wildness, carved me into someone who is not afraid to face life head-on.
Some people hear this and assume it means im addicted to chaos, that i glorify instability. But passion isn’t about destruction—it’s about aliveness. It’s about chasing what sets your chest on fire, what keeps you awake at night, what demands you to risk everything just for a glimpse of something extraordinary. Passion can be tender, too. It can be found in a kiss that lingers longer than it should, in a project that consumes months of work for no guarantee of success, in the decision to stay true to your desires even when they terrify you. Passion, at its core, is honesty. And honesty has always felt more sacred to me than safety.
Safety is a kind of silence. It’s the relationship that looks good on paper but never moves your spirit. It’s the job that pays the bills but leaves you staring out the window imagining another life. It’s the dream you shrink to fit inside the expectations of others. Safety is not bad, but it is small. And I was never meant to live small.
Passion, on the other hand, demands expansion. It stretches me beyond the edges of what I thought I could endure. It reminds me that life is not about survival alone—it’s about expression, depth, intensity. When I chase passion, I meet myself at my most alive. I touch a version of me that isn’t afraid of failure, heartbreak, or rejection, because I know that at least I was brave enough to try.
I know this choice comes with a price. I know I could protect myself more if I leaned into safety. I know I could avoid heartbreak, embarrassment, loss. But every time I imagine a life where I never risked, never bled, never ached for something beyond reach, I imagine a life drained of color. I imagine myself as a shadow instead of a flame. That is the kind of safety I cannot afford.
The people who have marked me most were passionate souls too—the lovers who couldn’t help but kiss me like they might never see me again, the dreamers who built castles out of thin air, the friends who reminded me that being alive means daring to want more. They may have not stayed forever, but they left me changed. Safety rarely changes anyone. Passion leaves fingerprints on the soul.
Sometimes I wish I could be different. I wish I could crave the quiet stability that seems to soothe so many people. I wish I could choose the easy road, the one lined with caution signs and guarantees. But when I stand at the crossroads, heart pounding, I can never walk the safer path. My blood insists on fire. My spirit insists on risks. I choose passion because I’d rather regret my scars than never having lived.
Passion is not always wise, but it is always real. And realness is worth the ache. To feel desire so strong it shakes your voice, to create something that takes your breath away, to give yourself fully to a person or a dream with no promise it will last—these are the moments I will remember when I am old. Not the safe ones, not the careful ones, but the wild, messy, extraordinary ones.
Choosing passion is not about rejecting responsibility or maturity. It is about refusing to settle for a half-lived life. It is about honoring the pulse within me that craves meaning more than security. It is about saying yes to the fire, knowing it could consume me, but trusting that even in the burning, I will be transformed.
So yes, I choose passion over safety every damn time. Not because it’s easier, not because it’s painless, but because passion makes me feel infinite in a world that constantly reminds me of limits. Safety might keep me breathing, but passion keeps me alive.
And I’d rather burn with life than coast through safety untouched.
Lanalefay 