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Did you ever jump off the high dive when you were a kid? I remember climbing that ladder, watching my hands as I climbed. It was such a long way to the top. And then walking out between the railings, hands gripping, feeling brave and scared and exhilarated all at the same time.
Peering through those railings, the distance between me and the water felt just on the edge of too much.
Creeping past the safety zone, the butterflies would flutter wildly, the perception of depth, amplified. But getting to that point felt like a commitment I couldn’t back down from. Somehow, the idea of turning around felt scarier, more imbalanced.
And embarrassing.
Because there were always others watching.
So, I’d launch off the end, freefalling for those breathless, eternal seconds of speed, weightlessness, out-of-control descent. I don’t know about you, but I don’t recall that hitting the water was ever painless. I mean, even as a kid, my falling body created enough force and friction upon entry that I felt a sting.
But I always wanted to give it another go.
I loved the feeling of freefalling because I trusted the landing would be gentle enough not to leave any lasting hurts. And it never did. Though sometimes getting it just a little wrong hurt for quite a while (thank goodness I never had to experience the horror of a bellyflop from those heights, though I witnessed it a few times). Yet, I recovered and went right back at it.
Jumping off the high dive was freefalling without flight. It was about trusting that you could control the landing enough not to do any significant damage.
I think this is often our approach to life. We want to control the landing while we’re freefalling so that it’s safe, but we stay within our comfort zones.
We still know what’s at the end of the trip.
I’m talking about the scary, exhilarating, and brave moments that mark important steps in our lives.
We jump into these moments, but we think we at least have some control and understanding of the outcomes. And sometimes it stings a little. It’s the growing pains of love after the honeymoon period. The struggles of learning a new job. The challenges of raising kids.
And sometimes the pain lasts longer. Lost love, losing pets, discovering that the job isn’t a good fit. But you rise to the surface, and eventually, the pains subside, allowing you to climb back up the ladder for another go.
Then, there’s another kind of freefalling. The kind where you don’t know what’s at the bottom. Where your leap is one of faith. Where trust isn’t about controlling the journey or how hard you hit.
My primary paying gig is as a contracted content writer. I write for other people (with no by-line…I’m a ghostwriter). One of the businesses I write for is a humane animal control company. Their approach to wildlife control is wonderful, and their content is fun to write. I get to find out all kinds of things about animals that most people think of as pests. Or that they are terrified of.
Like bats.
Bats are so cool (I wouldn’t have said that before I’d learned more about them doing research for blog posts).
They are the only flying mammals (others glide, rather than fly). But bats don’t fly the same way birds do.
The bones in a bat’s wings are essentially the same ones we have in our hands and arms, though they’re missing a few and their digits are a lot longer. The wings on a bat are basically a thin membrane stretched between bones, attaching to the fingers, forearm, body, and legs. They aren’t meaty and muscular like bird wings. Instead, they are malleable and responsive. Bats can change directions on a dime using their fingers and arms to control their wings.
Though this adaptation allows them to pursue flitting and darting insects (and terrorize humans who think these creatures are somehow out to beam them in the head and suck their blood), it comes at a cost.
Their wings aren’t strong enough to lift their relatively heavy bodies off a surface. So, what do they do?
They freefall first, and then they take off. Bats need to fall before they can fly.
Maybe, sometimes, we do too.
Perhaps sometimes it’s necessary to drop yourself into the great unknown, to let yourself fall, without a known safety net, without understanding or controlling the outcomes. To trust that you can fly, navigating the air to reach whatever it is you’re after.
Oh, I know. It’s a giant risk. How do we trust when we find ourselves in midair, with nothing between our feet and the ground but open space?
It’s disorienting to take such a leap, whatever your goal is. It’s terrifying when you don’t play it safe.
I’ve jumped a few times, though for some, it might seem the risks I’ve taken weren’t truly risks at all. But, to me, they were. And that’s the point.
I’ve committed to getting to know myself. The real me. Not the me that I think I should be. Not the me others think I should be or expect me to be.
As I’ve chipped away at the shell of habits, beliefs, and expectations, I sometimes feel untethered. I wonder who is left when traits I’ve long held onto as my identity (but don’t serve me) are stripped away—the insecurities, fears, and not-good-enoughs.
It’s a strange sensation to shed the old and not know what will be in its place. You have to commit to allowing yourself to freefall for a time to make space for the new. It can feel like you’ve lost all control, and you need the courage to trust you have the wings to fly.
In that space between old and new, it’s tempting to let the old seep back in. There’s comfort in knowing, even if you know that what you know keeps you small and feeling less than.
But there is also something incredibly freeing about that space in between. Anything and everything is possible.
The same is true when embarking on a new path in life, something utterly unexpected and unlike your current path. I made that leap when I took off to Europe for the first time, with not enough money in the bank and no set plans. I did it again when I bought this old RV and hit the road with no job other than teaching the occasional online university class.
And I did it once more when I embarked on this writing journey, perhaps the scariest of them all. Showing up here and writing books—both are such personal endeavors. They lay bare the creative spirit that I set aside years ago, display my heart and soul (yes, even in writing fiction), and leave me open to criticism—sometimes voiced, other times silent, and still other times imagined, I’m sure…and most of all, from myself to myself. They leave me vulnerable to that old fear that I am not seen, not heard, and not good enough to deserve either.
Yet, I have decided to commit to this leap into the void, this sense of freefalling, trusting that I have the wings to navigate the space I’ve created to allow this new thing to continue to grow. In confidence, in skill, in connection (to myself and others).
And sure, there are obstacles. Often they’re of my own making, as I fall to the temptation to let the old work its way into my mind, settling into my bones, sometimes for months sometimes for weeks. As I dive deeper into knowing me, though, those weeks turn into days or hours, before I realize that the old is no longer quite so comfortable, and I let go again, returning to this new sense of me and my creative being.
I still feel like I’m freefalling sometimes. But I also feel my wings unfolding, readying for flight.
When a bat wants to fly, it simply lets go. It knows that in freefalling, it can truly spread its wings.
Peace and love.
Desserae
Shifting Space by Desserae Shepston is a community-supported newsletter. I am so grateful to you for stopping by and taking the time to read. If you’d like to receive new posts and support my work, please consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. A paid subscription is just $5/month or $50/year. Adding the Substack app lets you easily join the conversation and participate in the community. And if this post resonates, please feel free to share!