The first time I went rappelling, I was maybe twelve years old. It wasn’t even a cliff, really. More like a steep incline. Fear of heights doesn’t need cliffs, though. That day, all it needed was my imagination. I remember the panic that squeezed my chest as I stood at the top waiting for my turn to make the descent. We were just practicing, getting used to the harness and belay, but my mind had already decided I wasn’t safe.
When the real trip came, I faked sick. I stayed home and spent enough time in bed to “convince” my parents I didn’t feel well. The truth? I was drowning in the shame of backing out.
My friends went out and they all came home. There were great stories. And I missed all of it — not because I couldn’t go, but because I was too afraid to push myself out of my comfort zone — too afraid to live.
That might be a harsh judgment of a twelve year old afraid of height, but that pattern? It stuck.
The cloth’s just changed.
Years later, I still catching myself sitting out of the story. It’s not because I don’t want to be in it, but it is because fear got to me first.
Recently, I sat in a darkened theater with most of my kids and a few of their significant others watching “Finding Neverland.” It’s the musical re-telling of how J.M. Barrie came to write Peter Pan, but it’s really a story about intense grief and vivid imagination.
It’s also about the power of stories to let us keep someone alive, but also let them go.
There’s a scene toward the end of the show where J.M. Barrie and Sylvia Llewelyn-Davies are watching her boys act out Peter’s first play. Sylvia — dying of lung cancer —collapses in a fit of coughing. Barrie invites the boys to go into the house but Peter hides behind the table and hears. Hears that his mom isn’t doing very well.
In a rage, Peter rips up his play, and hides under the table. Then, Peter and Barrie sing When Your Feet Don’t Touch the Ground — this hauntingly beautiful lullaby that somehow fills and expands the hollow places inside us.
It was dark, and I didn’t even try to stop the tears. I let them rise.
Because I know what it feels like to lose a mother too soon.
I know what it’s like to feel untethered — losing your grip on what you knew and reeling to understand how life can go on without her. I know what it’s like to feel the weight of things I wish I could say to her and everything I didn’t understand until it was too late.
My fear of heights has all but vanished as I’ve gotten older, but the achingly beautiful message of “Finding Neverland” reminds me that I’m afraid of being forgotten. Of being ordinary. Of reaching the end of my life — whenever that comes — and realizing I’ve spent far too much of it building on survival not meaning.
My wife and I paid for the theater tickets and dinner that night. It wasn’t a wise financial decision. Honestly, we did it because we loved the production and wanted to share something meaningful with our kids. They’ll always remember that I worked too much when they were young (and now). I did it — do it — because I want to provide some comforts, but also out of a twisted sense of duty.
But I hope they also remember the nights I showed up.
Like paying for a night at the theater and an average meal at an average diner. I hope they remember that those things moved me — and that I didn’t hide the tears or the ache behind some mask of strength.
This is what living looks like.
Not the giant leaps or social-media-worthy adventures. Living is made up of small, quiet choices to be present. To cry during a musical. To laugh at your kid’s ridiculous 1980s joke, even though he was born in 2015. It’s letting yourself be seen.
I’ve spent too many years thinking legacy would come from what I built or achieved. But lately, I’m learning to want something different: to be remembered for the things I didn’t get paid for. For the time I gave freely. For the people I lifted. For the moments when I stopped chasing approval long enough to actually feel something.
Fear doesn’t just stop us from doing dangerous things. Sometimes, it stops us from doing meaningful things.
Like healing.
Or resting.
Or letting people see who we really are.
I’ve used “sacrifice” to justify my absence more times than I’d like to admit. And sometimes, yes, it’s true. But more often, we let ourselves become too busy building a future to live in the present. Sometimes we call it responsibility when we’re really just scared of failing at what matters most. (How’s that for ironic?)
But if I don’t change the pattern, I already know what my kids might say at my funeral: He worked a lot. Full stop.
There’s dignity in hard work. But there’s a line I’ve crossed far too many times — and that’s not the story I want to write anymore.
Here’s what’s funny: I barely remember the details of that rappelling trip. But I remember the fear. And I remember the regret.
I want more moments that matter. More memory-making, not just money-making. I want to stop letting fear speak louder than presence.
I’m learning — slowly and clumsily — that bravery doesn’t just belong to cliff edges or battlefields. Bravery is required in everyday living.
It’s saying yes to life when your instinct is to retreat.
It’s letting your feet touch the ground — even when it would be easier to float away.
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