My 35th birthday was supposed to be big. I had planned a trip to Colorado with friends that was going to involve bluegrass, snow tubing and no children. It was going to be a glorious celebration four months after the birth of my second child.
Then COVID-19 came and we canceled the trip. In a fit of pique, I bought a Groupon for skydiving and promptly forgot about it. The next few months consumed me within the hour-by-hour survival of simultaneously working and parenting from home.
Then fall came and I realized that I needed to either take the plunge or forfeit the money. I am mainly a sensible person, not a thrill seeker. But I hate the idea of wasting money. I texted an old friend and said, “Want to go skydiving with me?” He responded “yes” immediately. I booked the two of us for a Saturday morning skydive.
That day, I drove to a tiny airport down a narrow road lined with family farms. My friend was waiting for me, eager to catch up after months of not seeing each other. Talking with him took my mind off our impeding free fall. I was both looking forward to it and desperate for it to be over.
We waited in an open field next to a dairy farm. The runway looked more like a driveway. Two groups jumped ahead of us, falling through the air like spinning packages. Everyone landed and was high-fiving each other, which I took to be a good sign. I saw one group that looked like a family with older kids, and I imagined they were celebrating someone’s 18th or 50th birthdays.
Before I even started to wish for coffee, it was our turn to board the plane. I removed my glasses, tightened my face mask and got zipped into a harness. We took off, each jumper leashed to an instructor. Looking around the plane, I worried privately that several passengers were not wearing masks.
A tickle of joy at being airborne permeated my anxiety, and I looked down, captivated by the fertile green patchwork of farms. My friend hit my foot, interrupting my reverie. “Love you dude,” and he was gone. Then it was my turn. My feet were hanging out of the door of an open airplane like the sky was my personal swimming pool. Then an inelegant sit-dive and the earth rushed toward me with full force.
I started laughing hysterically as soon as the parachute opened—big and wild laughter. We had 15 seconds of free fall and then a five-minute float down to the field. The instructor and I stumbled together from sky to land, and I kept laughing for 10 more minutes—first on my knees, like a thank you, and then while walking with a secret chuckle.
Part of the rush of relief that caused me to laugh when the parachute launched was the joy of the life that I got to keep living—the loving family that is mine and was waiting for me. I thought about my 4-year-old who dances to musicals, my baby girl who shrieks with delight when she sees me, and a husband who bakes bread and soothes my soul. That I can still surprise myself and my family as middle age approaches was worthy of this good laugh.
Skydiving is safer than driving. But still, the danger feels real. I was scared, but I knew that I could do it, which is what I’ve told my kids that being brave means. In an uncertain, scary time, it’s important for all of us to feel brave.
Lara Henneman (@lhenpen) is a storyteller who writes about parenting, politics and technology.
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