The Flight that Changed my Mind about Falling

Unplanned Detour for Unpacking the Turbulence Within

A few years ago, I was on a plane. On this flight, I was heading towards the sunshine. A solo adventure long overdue.

It was my chance to escape the recent challenges clouding my life. I felt excited about this journey but a nagging thought snuck in: I wasn’t exactly thrilled about flying.

Suddenly, the flight attendant’s voice cut through my thought. Oh no! I heard the word turbulence.

The atmosphere immediately changed amongst the passengers. One man bolted down the corridor. Panic contorted his face. But he was quickly redirected. Then, I could hear a long, tense silence. It happened while we flew miles high, far from the reassuring ground.

In a crisis, staying present and listening can be a challenge. I reflected on the irony of this sudden realisation. After all, I enjoyed gazing out the window, captivated by the world below. To be fair, my fear wasn’t about flying itself, the heights, or even death.

It was the fear of falling.

But not literally plummeting from the sky. Rather failing… or not progressing.

Maybe it stemmed from something deeper — a feeling of being stuck in a stagnant life.

“It’s easier to be present when the stakes are high,” I thought, as I felt a sudden sinking and shaking of the plane. This idea hung heavy as I yearned to feel more present and truly connect to the here and now.

I looked out of the window again. The endless clouds struck me with their beauty. They were a vast bright canvas mirroring life’s possibilities.

It made me wonder: If each moment can be a blank slate, why is starting over so daunting? Why do I cling to the past? Why can’t I “Just Do It”?

The truth is, the thought of failure made me feel petrified, frozen into stone inside. I have failed before. Those failures felt like a series of little deaths, each of them chipping away at my courage.

The fear of flying became my metaphor for the fear of living. I fear high stakes in life. They are dangerous flights. Taking risks feels like plummeting towards uncertainty.

Would I even be conscious during the fall? Could I stay present in those final moments? Isn’t it too late then?

I don’t want to be on autopilot! This detachment comes at a cost. Living life from a distance, never fully engaged.

Now, I close my eyes and I remember I landed safe and sound. I can feel the reassuring ground under my feet. And… when I open my eyes, I can see a future where I’ve conquered my fears.

Thanks for reading.

Jud