“Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear - not absence of fear.”
― Mark Twain
I was fifteen years old the first time I jumped off of a cliff. I was on a hiking trip in the desert and as we came upon the base of a cliff our tour guide pointed to the top and said, “we’re going up there, and then we’re going to jump!” It wasn’t exactly jumping, it was rappelling. We would be lowering ourselves down the cliff while attached to a rope. I watched people in the group in front of us gracefully glide down, bouncing themselves off the side of the cliff, lowering themselves with apparent ease. In my mind I knew it was safe. But my body was not as ready to trust what my eyes saw.
As we climbed my body began, ever so slightly, to tense up, to contract. At the top, I walked right up to the edge and looked over. Immediately the guttural sensation of fear kicked in. My stomach lurched, turned over, and revealed a blackhole-like space that my insides seemed to be swirling around; my heart skipped a beat and then started beating faster, generating a burning heat in my chest; my breath lost the easeful rhythm that I hadn’t even been aware it was keeping; and my field of awareness constricted - my vision narrowed, I could no longer make out the words that those around me were speaking, and all of the meandering thoughts that had kept me company on the hike disappeared so fully that I didn’t even know to miss them.
I took a step back from the cliff’s edge, reestablished my breath, and found inside myself a clarity of focus and determination. There was a decision in front of me and it quite quickly became clear what I was going to do. My choice was to take the leap, to trust that I would be okay. I was deciding to acknowledge the fear and move through it, move towards the edge of the cliff, towards the experience that I wanted to have. I didn’t suppress the fear, but I didn’t give into it either. When it was my turn, I put on the harness, walked up to the cliff’s edge, strapped myself in, and began lowering myself down.
The first step was the hardest. I could feel the dissonance in my body as my brain worked to convince my stomach that it was safe to lean back over the cliff, that it was safe for my legs to release the weight of my body, to give up the control they were so used to possessing. Letting go was exhilarating and terrifying. My heartbeat and my breath were all over the place. My brain was processing so quickly I could barely notice the experience. About halfway down I paused, held myself in place, suspended in the air, and took a moment to look around. Taking in the beauty that surrounded me, my breath came back, and for a moment I could feel everything I was experiencing: the peace and the terror. The fear then kicked back in and I started shaking, I started worrying, I started doubting my ability to go on, noticing all of the ways I wasn’t doing it right. Another breath and I got myself moving again. Before I knew it I was back on the ground. My landing was not graceful. My legs, shaking so vigorously, could not hold my body as it re-established contact with the earth. Flat on my back and still shaking, I got unclipped by one of the guides and made my way out of the landing zone.
I sat quietly with my group integrating the experience I just went through. I could feel the fear in my body begin to subside. I could feel the air on my skin. My breath returned, my heartbeat slowed down, my vision became crisper and more clear. The space in my body and my mind that had been so consumed by fear became open and I could feel a new emotion take its place. I was proud of myself.
“Courage is the most important of all the virtues because without courage, you can't practice any other virtue consistently.”
― Maya Angelou
In the years since that moment in the desert, I have taken many a leap into something unknown. Some of these leaps include small moments of being present in my physical body: crossing the street during aggressive rush hour traffic, stepping onto an airplane, standing at the edge of a cold body of water readying myself to jump in. Some of these leaps come in the form of larger life moments: leaving a steady job without a full plan as to how I would sustain myself, opening myself to a new relationship after a deep heartbreak; getting myself to try again after a perceived professional failure. And some of these leaps come in small moments of putting myself out there in the world: knocking on the door of an unfamiliar apartment even though I triple checked that I had the correct address, walking into a room of people I do not know, sharing an unpopular opinion in a conversation, or speaking an uncomfortable truth to a beloved friend.
In each of these moments a version of that guttural fear shows up in my body. And in each of those moments, I remember that I have a choice as to what I am going to do with that fear, as to how I am going to respond to it. This choice, this moment, is where courage lives. Courage becomes a possibility only in a moment of experiencing fear. Courage is remembering in a moment where I am overcome with fear that I have a choice as to how I am going to respond, that I have agency over how I am going to act. Courage is choosing to act in accordance with my values in the face of my fears. Courage is what allows me to do hard things. Courage is an attribute that can be cultivated, a skill that can be practiced. Courage is what allows me to live out in the world as the person who I think I am, the person I see myself as, the person who I aspire to be.