Healdsburg, California at dawn. 6/18/2016
It wasn’t until the balloon was three thousand feet in the air that I started to panic. Everything moving along the ground had drifted away until rendered miniature – infinitesimal ants traveling across soft grids of green carved with black, twisting roadways.
You see, I’ve been on planes many times but never something smaller like a helicopter, ferris wheel, or hot air balloon. Once I took an arial tramway to Mount San Juacinto State Park and thought I’d pass out the entire time, later explaining to my concerned-looking boyfriend that the altitude was to blame.
Every time I find myself at the top of a tall building I choose to ignore the bubbling sensation of vertiginous inefficacy in my chest, assigning it to a larger sense of cosmic insignificance while avoiding looking down at the wondrous world below.
I bolstered my body to the side of the crowded basket. The sun was rising, casting heavenly rays of light across endless rows of agrarian bounty. I was going to barf.
The guy to the right of me wanted a better look. “Can we switch places?” He whispered softly in my direction. “You want to switch places?” I said loudly enough to make it clear that this was a thing people were doing now.
I didn’t want anyone to know that I was afraid.
Two weeks later, apprehension about sleeping outdoors aside (a separate fear unto itself), I found myself camping in Yosemite with friends. On our second day we decided to summit Gaylor Peak.
With a medium-sized group of six this decision could very well likely have been attributed to the Abilene Paradox, a collective decision with the originator being the universe. The agreement to go off-trail was made subconsciously and theoretically, without any major proffering past the general keyword of “adventure.”
We simply went forth, without anyone acknowledging at any point that we were no longer on the trail. We scaled boulders of exquisite granite and made snow angels at 11,000 feet above sea level. We didn’t encounter any other humans despite it being the fourth of July weekend. The world was ours.
As we neared the top, this time I said the words aloud. “I’m scared.” I was tasting cotton but up and over a ledge I went, climbing onto a jaggedy piece of rock where I took a seat at what seemed to be the edge of the Earth.
I swung my legs down and over the ledge.
The silence in the outside world was shattering as I inhaled deeply, attempting to reduce the volume on the inside to a garbled hum.
I was starting the process of conquering my fear.
A few days later, enamored by the feeling of climbing rocks in general, I visited a local rock climbing gym. I hopped from foot to foot in stylish climbing shoes slightly too big for my feet. I climbed to the top of one set, then a second. I could climb up, no problem. The problem was looking down.
You see, heights aren’t the only thing I’m afraid of.
Fifteen years ago I climbed wearily from the Pacific Ocean, venturing in only to be sucked under by a violent riptide.
Sandy brown water rushed over my face and into my nose. My body was flipped upside down as I struggled to regain control. Thankfully, after some time the ocean decided to release us.
I murmured something to my sister along the lines of “that was really scary” as if to affirm what had just happened. She silently nodded in response. We were terrified but didn’t discuss it until many years later.
You see, we were raised in a household where it wasn’t common to talk about our feelings.
That day I made a vow to never swim in the ocean again.
Cut to April of this year. I’m crawling on my hands and knees on a beach in Mexico, covered in sweat and sand.
Jesse is barking orders, telling us to do things like sprints and burpees. The late afternoon sun was sharp and we were glad to wade into the ocean for relief as the end of the session drew near.
“Appreciate your ancestry and the people who got you here to this very moment,” Jesse said as we looked out into the ocean.
I thought back to that day in California all those years ago. It was time to stop being so afraid. I had to get comfortable with the delta between the gradual increase in height and the place where we began.
As he spoke I wandered further into the water. I saw a huge wave coming our way. It was a decision time – I could either let it knock me down or embrace it for what it was.
And so, I dove.
The cold water took me in. It rushed over the back of my head, saturating my hair and body with its cool indifference. Salt water flooded my eyes and nose. This time, I didn’t struggle. I let my body move through it.
Seconds later I popped up on the other side. In that very brief moment I felt free.
I stood and looked back at Jesse. He had a big smile on his face with a hand over his heart. “Did I do something good? Wait, am I naked?” I looked down.
“Today is a new day. This is our present, it is a gift. We are not privileged. We have another day – we’ve been granted this – yes – one more!”
I threw my arms in the air in response and did a little dance, pointing my palms towards the sky.
What if that day in the Pacific Ocean had never happened? And even after it did, was that any excuse to never get into the ocean ever again?
This wasn’t about being reckless. I had to face the waves eventually. Otherwise they’d continue to crash against my body and at some point I’d weaken and fall.
Besides, I’d already made the decision to operate with risk.
Startups are inherently risky. I’ve lost my job three times. I’ve moved across the country four. I’ve made it through heartbreak, loss, and failure, only to emerge on the other side with mere bumps and bruises.
I consider myself lucky.
But I have trouble leveraging risk in order to grow. For me, risk thrives on fear. Because of this, I have trouble looking it in the eye.
That time, I didn’t let it suck me down or prevent me from climbing higher. Instead, I decided to do the crazy thing (for me at least) – to go even harder.
And, it worked.
If we challenge ourselves to move through risk bravely, I wonder if we can generate the output necessary in order to live a purpose-driven life.
Life is unpredictable anyway. Why not use it to our advantage?
Just don’t let fifteen years go by if you do decide to dive in.