As I am writing this, it is currently 8:19PM on a Thursday night. It’s dark out, it’s raining, and I just officially accepted an offer for a job in New York City.
After my interview, on my painfully long Megabus ride home, I was thinking about my life up until this point. I thought about all of the things I have done, and things that I’ve wanted to do and plan to do, as well as things that I haven’t done, have no desire to do, and sure as hell do not plan to do. One of the things that crossed my mind as a “do not want to do,” was skydiving. I just don’t understand why the fuck anyone does it. As a chronically anxious individual with an immense fear of heights, the thought of jumping out of an airplane (and by that I mean getting pushed out of an airplane, because I sure as hell know that I would not have the mental strength to actually get myself to jump) seems certifiably insane. However, the more I thought about it, the more I realized something important (I know this is rambly… just stay with me, I’m almost to the point) – they don’t do it for the terrifying jump, they do it for the gratifying freefall. And I feel like that’s kind of where I’m at in my life, where I’m almost to that point, I’m almost to my freefall, but I’ve got to get past the jump.
Up until this point, my life has been pretty great. Honestly, I don’t have much to complain about, and I’d like to think I’m prepared for what lies ahead, but truthfully, it’s just completely frightening (in the best way possible).
You know when a plane is kind of just driving around before takeoff, when it’s taxiing? That was me during my easy breezy high school years. Everything was good, I didn’t have much to worry about, and I felt completely safe – I was grounded. Well obviously, the four years flew by, just like everyone warned me that they would, and then it was time to leave for college. This was the “prepare for takeoff” time in my life. I was equal parts anxious and excited. I knew I was about to embark on a fantastic journey, and the future was full of clear blue skies. I was coasting steady in the air for four years, which turned out to be the absolute shortest four years of my life. I walked across the stage on graduation day, accepted my hard-earned diploma, and now I’m here, with my toes over the edge of this plane, parachute strapped on my back, looking down at what seems to be the most vague, gaping hole of the unknown, and the universe seems to be screaming at me, “what are you waiting for? JUMP. NOW.”
There are so many unanswered questions in my head, so much fear, so much worry, but overpowering all of that is the wanderlust. The desire to go, to get out, live my life, follow my dreams, and realize that I have made it.
When you’re skydiving, in order to get to the freefall, you need a physical push. I was waiting for mine, and it came this week in the form of, “congratulations, you start the on 17th.” So yeah, I’m scared shitless, but I’m young, I’m ready, and I’m asking myself, if you don’t do things that kind of terrify the hell out of you, are you really even living?