Let me start by saying that I never intended to jump out of an airplane.
That was not on my list. Not a fan of heights, me. In fact, I’ve had pretty intense acrophobia all my life. But my daughter is a daredevil who wanted to skydive for her 18th birthday.
Recognizing that I couldn’t stop her, I also realized that I didn’t want her to go without me. I had to be there to catch her.
I watched a lot of videos before I committed to the jump. People said skydiving is less scary than standing on a rickety ladder; you’re so high up your brain can’t process the height. I was especially struck by Will Smith describing his first experience skydiving—the fear the night before, that morning, right up until he exited the plane and then: elation. Awe. And an understanding that he had wasted all that time being afraid. “God placed the best things in your life on the other side of fear,” he said.
I was sold. I signed us up.
The day of the jump, I was doing all right. I kept Will Smith’s words in mind. It helped that my daughter was so giddy and excited. Right before we got into our flight suits, I took some time to myself, to calm down and remember to stay present.
My Australian tandem instructor, Andrew, helped, too. He called me “Legend” and kept up a cheerful banter throughout the safety briefing and takeoff.
The panic didn’t really set in until people began dropping out of the plane.
Just…gone.
One person. Two. Three. Four.
Then my daughter, grinning into the ether, my heart scrabbling after her.
I don’t think I would have made it out of that plane without Andrew. He kept telling me where to place my hands, my legs, my head, while almost imperceptibly moving me forward. We hovered for one second on the sharp metal edge, wind rushing past us, the growl of propellers, a blank whiteness in front of us.
And then the plane was gone.
And we were in a cloud.
It didn’t really feel like falling, because I couldn’t see the earth, just white, everywhere. It felt like being deep underwater, where you don’t know which way is up, mixed with the roar and rushing wind of a roller coaster and the tiny needle-prick feeling of skiing in sleet.
Then Andrew released the parachute and steered us out of the cloud.
And suddenly, it was peaceful.
Calm.
So, so beautiful.
And there before us was Voss, Norway.
Voss is one of the most stunning places I’ve ever been, and seeing it from that height was incredible. We floated above mountains and lakes, a patchwork of greens and blues.
To my surprise, I didn’t feel afraid at all. I felt cradled. Happy. So grateful.
I watched my daughter with her rainbow parachute a little below us and was so glad that she got this experience, and that we got to share it.
I felt a realization settle into me: Fear is just a story we tell ourselves about what might happen. We can be aware of it, and decide whether it’s a true story or not.
As someone who’s worked on trauma and victimization issues for more than thirty years, I perhaps have a unique perspective on fear. I don’t ever want us to get rid of it. Fear is important. It keeps us safe. We need to listen to that gut feeling telling us not to trust a person, or to get out of a situation.
But as I floated there above our beautiful world, I knew that fear isn’t always right.Sometimes, we can feel fear and let our rational minds decide that the story fear is telling us isn’t accurate. That what’s waiting for us isn’t pain, danger, or death, but this:
I don’t think you need to jump out of an airplane to learn something about fear.But I hope you find some ways to gently confront whatever barriers you’ve set up for yourself. Test them. Look at the stories they’re telling you.
It’s possible they aren’t quite as helpful—or as protective—as you once thought.
