There’s a version of that child that hides behind my consciousness.
But she surfaces from time to time and reminds me of the sting of regret from a summer day that was supposed to be fun.
The Day I Chose the Sidelines
It was supposed to be just another summer day, but with a little magic carved into it.
My parents had planned a trip to the amusement park — far enough away to require intention, but close enough to be a spontaneous escape from the monotony of everyday life.
I don’t remember all the details, but I remember how it felt:
- The anticipation.
- The heat radiating off the pavement.
- The sound of laughter and roller coasters clanking against their tracks.
We were still young enough that these moments felt big — magical even. And on this trip, we had my grandmother with us. Her presence was steady, kind, unshaken by the chaos of cotton candy and long lines. She came along for the ride. Literally.
The Coaster That Followed Me All Day
Before we even entered the parking lot, I saw it — the peak of a coaster with a reputation. One of the highest and scariest drops at the time, rivaled only by some monster of a ride in Ohio I’d only ever heard about.
That fear followed me the entire day.
It had weight. It taunted me.
It tested my bravery and made me question whether I had the courage to even stand in that line.
Two Kinds of Fear
Here’s the thing about fear:
There’s the kind that lives quietly inside you.
It’s visible to others but contained — like deciding, while still in line, that you can’t do it and ducking under the rope. Embarrassing, sure, but life moves on.
And then there’s the other kind.
The kind that forces everything to stop — like deciding halfway up the first hill on a roller coaster that you want off. The kind that halts the ride, calls in staff, and inconveniences everyone around you.
That second kind of fear demands attention.
It changes the experience for everyone.
And that’s the one I was terrified of.
The Longest Line I Never Stood In
That line stretched far beyond the entrance, giving me more than enough time to think about my choice.
Waiting builds anticipation.
It magnifies a whisper of fear into a scream.
But I stayed quiet — because if I acknowledged it out loud, it might win. And if I pretended it wasn’t there, maybe I could convince myself I was bigger than it.
When the moment came, I wasn’t.
I didn’t even get into the line.
Watching from the Ground
That coaster wasn’t just a ride — it was a storyteller. It knew when to climb, when to pause, when to drop you hard enough to make your stomach rise into your throat.
And maybe that’s what scared me most: to get on meant agreeing to be part of that story.
One that would hijack my senses.
One I wasn’t sure I could survive.
The fear wasn’t about falling.
It wasn’t even about the ride.
It was the fear of facing fear itself.
My Grandmother Didn’t Stay Behind
What etched that regret into something permanent was watching my grandmother climb into that ride beside my older sister.
I had seen her as fragile — not unbrave, but cautious. Part of me hoped she’d stay back, validating my choice.
But she didn’t.
She got on. Without hesitation. Without fanfare. Without even looking back.
And as I stood there, grounded, I realized I hadn’t just missed a ride.
I had missed a moment.
To feel that kind of joy, you have to be willing to face that kind of fear.
And I wasn’t. Not yet.
Years Later, a Different Rope
It would be years before I faced that kind of fear again.
This time, it wasn’t a roller coaster.
It was a parachute.
Skydiving had always lived in the same mental category as that coaster — thrilling, terrifying, and “not for me.” Something brave people did. Loud people. Fearless people.
But I had grown up. And I’d learned something:
Fear doesn’t always mean you’re not ready. Sometimes it just means you’re awake.
Saying It Out Loud
I made a decision. And then I did something scarier than jumping out of the plane:
I told people I was going to do it.
I posted it publicly — not for attention, but because once the promise was out there, I couldn’t take it back without disappointing the one person I could no longer afford to betray: myself.
Letting Fear Ride Along
Fear showed up that day — in my chest, my throat, my shaking hands as I suited up.
But this time, I let fear ride with me instead of steering the plane.
And when the door opened, wind roaring, the instructor asked if I was ready.
I said yes.
I didn’t just ride the ride.
I jumped from it.
Freefall
It wasn’t cinematic. It was loud, violent, disorienting. My stomach didn’t just drop — it vanished. The wind swallowed every thought, sound, and doubt I had left.
Then — quiet.
The chute deployed. And everything stilled.
I was suspended.
Held.
Cradled by something I couldn’t see but had chosen to trust.
And that’s when I realized:
This wasn’t just about bravery.
It was about surrender.
The Landing
Letting go didn’t mean I lost control.
It meant I gained freedom.
Because for once, I wasn’t watching from below.
I wasn’t grounded in what I thought was safety.
I was in the air — present, alive, light.
And when my feet finally touched the ground, I wasn’t the same person who had boarded the plane.
I wasn’t the child outside the rope.
I wasn’t the bystander pretending not to care.
I was the one who said yes.
What They Don’t Tell You
Once your feet leave the platform, fear doesn’t disappear — it becomes you.
There’s no pause button.
You trust the chute will open. You trust the air will catch you. You trust the harness will hold you.
And even as you float, legs dangling, a flicker of fear whispers: you’re not safe yet.
It’s only when your feet hit solid ground that you realize:
You jumped.
You fell.
You lived.
And somewhere along the way…
you stopped asking fear for permission.
© 2025 Kimberly Beth Thomas. All rights reserved.
If this story resonates with you — if you’ve ever faced the kind of fear that dares you to shrink — share it with someone who needs to be reminded that fear isn’t the enemy. Sometimes it’s just the doorway to freedom.