Lessons from Skydiving

I’ve gone skydiving only once before.

My friends drove me a couple hours East and surprised me for my 21st birthday. By the time I actually figured out what the surprise was, we were already parked. My mouth dropped in excitement. Skydiving is something I had always wanted to do, but never took the initiative to plan myself.

Two hours passed, and we were finally up in the plane. As we went higher, the jittery smile on my face stayed put, but my stomach started to fall. All I remember seeing is the people in front of me scooting off the bench and within seconds, jumping hundreds of feet from the ground.

They advised the beginners not to look down right before you jumped.

I looked.

Then I had less than a millisecond to make a decision.

I was confident that the person strapped behind me had done this successfully hundreds of times before. I was confident the parachute would most likely brace the fall. But, looking down a split second before jumping out of a plane, the ground no longer existed. Huge acres of land looked like patches on a quilt.

I knew that I would most likely land on the ground, but I couldn’t see where, and the way down to find out was churning my stomach. No stairs?

I decided to jump. The first 4 hours afterwards felt like walking on freedom.

Now, I’m thinking back to the experience in the context of my daily life. I’ve been living on someone else’s script for my entire life, how do I take a chance on my own?

It’s not a bad script. I was privileged enough to go to a beachside college, move out on my own, and buy a home. It’s not a bad script, but everything about it screams external validation. Underneath the surface, I’m not comfortable. I’m frustrated and itching for a change.

I’ve already reached the point where I could take years off and still be guaranteed a job and a place to live. So I’m frustrated at myself for choosing to stay on the plane. For not taking a chance on my creative aspirations. For not prioritizing the beauty of the world. What am I missing?

The instructor? The parachute?

While those were good components to have, that isn’t why I jumped out of the plane. I jumped without knowing where I would land, how long it would take to get there, or how hard I would fall.

With the trust that my feet would find ground again.

Dissecting this helps me ask better questions: How do I get to a point where I trust my feet will find ground again? Would my idea of ‘ground’ (ie. security, validation) mean the same thing to me as it did before I jumped?