Life is about patience and relinquishing control

This past weekend, we went skydiving with my mom to celebrate her birthday. It was a first for all of us, and likely a daring attempt by my mother to test Emily's and my mental fortitude. I've always described myself as someone who prefers to jump first and ask questions later, and it has become evident that I likely inherited this adventurous spirit from my mother.

When I was younger, skydiving was on "my list." However, as I grew older, I came to terms with the fact that my more daring side had been subdued over time. It's not that I don't crave adventure, but life has a way of reminding us of our mortality. The longer you exist on this Earth, the more you realize just how fragile life is, how things can change in an instant, and how important it is to strategically weigh your encounters with danger.

Of course, we didn't question my mom's desire to do something extreme. She joked that for this birthday, she wanted to fall intentionally instead of accidentally. My mother has a propensity to trip and fall, injuring herself more than once. I probably inherited that trait from her as well.

In mid-June, when she invited us to join her, what choice did we really have? We agreed to go along, not giving it much thought. Emily and I had previously gone bungee jumping once during our travels in New Zealand, and it was an incredibly intense experience. Our jump from a suspended bridge lasted seven seconds of free fall into one of the world's largest canyons. It's hard to describe all the emotions that raced through my mind as I fell those seven seconds toward the roaring river below, but that feeling left a lasting impression on my life.

Those seconds were filled with fear, euphoria, excitement, calm, and most importantly, acceptance. The body has a hard time processing that much in those whining seconds right before a perceived death. For me, my heart felt as though it may explode as I hurled to the ground below with only an elastic band attached to my ankles.

As the days leading up to our skydive dwindled, I began to reflect more on that experience. I convinced myself that if I could handle jumping from a plank into a canyon in another country, I could certainly jump out of a plane, strapped to a person and a parachute. Strangely, Emily and I didn't feel too bothered by what we were about to experience. It seemed like we would easily get through it. There wasn't that sense of fear that had preceded our jump in New Zealand.

Life has a funny way of putting things into perspective, making you realize that the truly difficult moments—the ones that bring you to your knees—are often not the things you see coming. Instead, they are those unexpected challenges that surprise you on a random Thursday, forever changing your life.

Our jump day had finally arrived, yet what we were about to experience still hadn't fully sunk in. We went through our morning routine as usual—coffee, conversation, and workouts—joking about our potential demise. We even morbidly texted family and friends with instructions on how to handle our belongings, reminding them to "take your time selling items in our home, as some have value." We fully expected to be returning home that day, but just in case we didn't, those messages could serve as our last will and testament. 

Before loading up our truck and heading to the Knoxville airfield, we shared a final kiss, hug, and farewell with Winter and Athena. The 45-minute drive was filled with light conversation about everyday topics like music, food, and stories, but surprisingly, there wasn't a sense of dread that we had anticipated.

Upon arrival, we realized that this event was somewhat special, featuring both novice jumpers (like us) and seasoned experts, many of whom would be jumping multiple times throughout the day. There were various groups, some with wing suits, others with cameras, and some simply trying to make their solo debut. The atmosphere was lively, with food trucks, bounce houses, and even a game where jumpers attempted to land on a makeshift slip-and-slide nestled between two inflatable unicorns and a kiddie pool. The goal was to either hit the slide, knock over the unicorns, or land in the pool, with additional points awarded for hitting all three.

As we checked in and made our way to the hangar to get suited up, we experienced a cloud delay, which occurs when heavy cloud coverage envelops the airfield. The hangar was bustling with activity; some people were packing parachutes, others were between jumps, and some were relaxing in literal recliners scattered about. The scene was not intense or stressful; it was filled with laughter, relaxation, and preparation. A shirtless man wandered around in fluorescent shorts and a man bun, towering over the rest of us and appearing completely at ease.

As time passed, the cloud delay was lifted. A twin-engine airplane arrived just as a group of 12 skydivers made their way to the loading area. This plane was specifically designed for jumping, equipped with a sliding side door that opened like a garage door when it was time to exit. The 12 divers climbed aboard, and off they went, ascending to 14,000 feet. Watching the plane dip in and out of the clouds as it gained altitude, it finally struck me: I was going to be jumping from that tiny speck in a little over an hour. My mind struggled to process what I was about to do, prompting me to take a moment to ground myself in the reality of the situation.

That feeling soon passed as I overheard one of the jumpers recounting a story about being strapped to a woman who had shit herself just before they leaped from the plane. In that moment, I realized that if I had one goal for the day, it was to not shit myself, which seemed doable.

I found my calm once again and proceeded to talk with some of the people around us. The time came to suit up for our jump. Our jump buddies approached us, helped us put on our harnesses, and explained what needed to happen during the jump. The most important rules were to keep our heads back, legs curled, and arms out. It seemed simple enough in the moment. 

Making our way to the runway and onto the plane was a novel experience. I've been in countless planes over the years, some I've ridden as a passenger, some I've flown, none I intended to jump out of. The inside of the plane had no seats; instead, it was an empty hall where we all sat crammed into two single-file lines. Our legs were open, using the person behind us as a rest—a messy chain of nervous jumpers preparing to free ourselves from this vehicle. Our ascent to 14,000 feet would only take six minutes. Floating in and out of clouds, we made our way upward. The hull of the plane felt calm, and the air cooled as we rose. 

The minutes stretched on until I was instructed to put on my goggles and tighten them so they wouldn't be blown off during our fall at 120 miles an hour. My jump buddy tightened and connected my harness to his. However, once we reached 13,000 feet, we encountered an issue: a cloud over the drop zone. After some discussion, it was decided that we would be dropped a few miles from the airport, allowing us to circumvent the clouds instead of going right through them. 

Eventually, the moment came: the door was opened, and the plane started to empty. One after another, people leaped from the plane, their exit causing the plane to jump upward as their weight exited. The first row of parachuters was gone; now it was time for us. My mother, whose idea this was, wanted to go first. She and her partner shuffled to the door and, in what took only a few seconds, hurled themselves out. Next was me. 

As I approached the door, I was instructed to put my legs out and under the lip, clinging to the bottom of the plane. I was then dangled out of the door. I adjusted my harness and tilted my head back, catching just a glimpse of the ground for a second. I no longer had any control over what would happen next. The world stood still and the seconds that followed were a blur. I was hurled out of the plane, and the sensation of falling washed over me. The brain can't fully comprehend what's going on in those moments. All I could perceive was that I was falling from the edge of the world. 

Time rushed by as I felt the wind pushing against me. I could see the horizon, a view I'd only experienced from the tops of mountains. The ground was visible but felt so far away. We hovered through the clouds until we were eventually enveloped by one. Seconds passed, and I saw nothing but white. It was pure bliss. There was nothing but the sensation of falling, filled with a sense of calm.

After 60 seconds, I felt the pull of the parachute. Suddenly, we were yanked upwards, our pace slowing. Dropping out of the clouds, I could finally see the ground again. We floated in the air, and it was much more relaxing than I had anticipated. We fell like a leaf, moving gently through the air, only jolted downward when we decided to make a steeper descent, the G-forces pulling us left and then right as we corkscrewed.

The airport was in sight, but the distance was hard to gauge. There was no feeling of height, just the sensation that we were descending a mountain. We prepared for landing, and what I thought would be a rough impact with the ground felt more like a small slide and a subtle fall backward. Was it really over? It was, and it had been perfect.

The beauty of leaving that plane is difficult to explain, but its impact lies in the acceptance of what we cannot control. The moment I let go, I realized I was no longer in control. I had to move beyond that moment of fear and fully embrace whatever was going to happen next. Instead of fearing the future, I chose to rejoice in the clarity that came with being present.

In those 60 seconds, there was no past or future—only the sensation of moving through time and space. Although it’s challenging to express the clarity of these moments, their impact extends far beyond their duration. These experiences remind us of the importance of living in the moment, second by second. We must allow ourselves to relinquish control and accept what we can or, in this case, cannot change. It’s in those moments that we discover the true sweetness of life.