Journalist Linda Ellerbee got it right: “Change is one form of hope. To risk change is to believe in tomorrow.”

As a new year begins, I reflect on one life-changing decision I’ve made: to institute a cross titer from my old medication to a newer atypical. Last spring, the drug I was on for 20 years stopped working. My psychiatrist executed the switch with a sure hand. It has been like a miracle: the paranoia lifted.

I’m decidedly pro-psychiatry in this regard, because I don’t think it’s an accident that my thoughts and feelings balanced out once I took the new pills. As a result, I’ve set a new goal: to save up enough money to move out of my apartment, possibly into a co-op in a new neighborhood. Such a life change is on the list of top stressful events.

To minimize my fear, I’ve given myself one year to save up the down payment. This seems like an impossible goal, yet everything I’ve done has led me to this point. I also rely on my network of friends who’ve already bought real estate to give me advice. I take the chance that the future will be better.

To risk change could be as simple as doing one new thing each day, I realized, the night I sat in Starbucks drinking a Caramel Macchiato and reading Lucky magazine. This break from routine was like a victory: to enjoy quiet time before going to the gym. It was also an achievement to go to the gym. I hadn’t been there in eight weeks, and my C-reactive protein was wacky again, so I was at moderate risk for heart disease and simply had to exercise.

It seems counter-intuitive to propose that people with schizophrenia take risks, yet I believe such leaps of faith are an integral part of recovery. The illness robs us of self-confidence, and risking failure is important. Two sides of the coin work in our favor: to do something we’ve never done before for the sheer pleasure of doing it, or doing what we love in order to perfect our passion. Either way we boost our confidence.

Right now, I’m particularly pleased that I registered for a painting class at The Art Students League in Manhattan. I stopped drawing and painting when I got sick, and though I’m an absolute beginner, I know I’ll get better with practice. On my first day of class, the instructor erased my sketch and had me do it over. “Draw what you see, not what you know,” he urged.

This involves a different kind of faith, so apropos of recovery; to envision reality with a clear eye, unvarnished by delusions.

When the new medication started to work, a panic set in because I realized that my paranoia was an excuse, and now I had nothing to fall back on. The Zen mantra tells us, “Leap and the net will appear.” But I wasn’t so sure.

When my worry returns—and the hard part is knowing that I can only keep it at bay—I rely on coping skills, like writing in my journal or taking a walk around the block.

One thing I refuse to do is get stuck in the past. As much as I don’t deal well with sudden changes thrust upon me, I understand that nothing lasts forever and it’s time to move ahead. What comforts me is knowing that God holds me in the palm of His hands. With a renewed sense of hope, I truly believe in tomorrow.