A few years ago, one of my favorite women in the world told me to jump off a cliff. And then, she arranged the experience, and sent me a plane ticket to St. George, Utah.
We stayed in a gorgeous spa, in a casita stocked with lots of high-octane liquids to combat the healthy meals served in the dining room. The rooms had delicious feather beds and jacuzzi tubs bigger than some swimming pools, and there were trained professionals happy to help with everything from aligning your chi to helping you find your spirit animal.
But I was much more interested in the ones with bolts and ropes who knew the way up the canyon.
The first step off the cliff was the hardest. But the bolts in the rock were secure, and the rope, the guides promised, would hold 500 pounds. So off I went, and promptly slipped on my first step and screamed something unsuitable for polite company. Or I saw a yacht in the Utah desert and announced “Oh, Ship!” One or the other.
This, I believe, is when my friend decided she would rather scoot back down the mountain on her butt than try rappelling. I was sorely tempted to join her
I love a challenge. But that first step’s a doozy, and I find myself hesitating.
That morning in Utah, though, I trusted the ropes. Took one step after the other. And when I got to the bottom, I headed up again, rappelled down again, climbed back up, and then took a zip line across the canyon.
The adrenaline rush lasted for months.
I try to remember it every time I stand on the edge of something new, hesitating before stepping off.