Standing at the Edge?

Maybe it’s time to take the leap

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I remember standing at the bottom of the ladder shivering, goggles propped up on my blue Speedo bathing cap. I was wearing a new suit, very subtly striped raspberry and white, the first with a v-neck and triangle shapes covering my emerging breasts. Swim team practice had ended hours ago, and most people had gone home, but I stood ready.

This day was going to be different. My mother had left to take my brother to a friend’s house; I’d made an excuse not to go along, happy for her to leave me alone with my fear.

I’d watched the older boys do it hundreds of times while I stood paralysed on the sidelines. But not today.

With an audience of few, I stepped onto the ladder. The first two rungs were easy, enabling me to reach the halfway point quickly. But as I looked down behind me, the butterflies in my stomach pulled me back to solid ground.

Standing there on the concrete, I breathed deeply, trying to get the pounding in my chest to stop before starting back up the ladder again, this time making it to the top rung. But, as I stared down the length of the board, the pounding grew louder, so I rushed back down again.

The lifeguard watched me closely. I expected him to tell me to ‘Dive’ or stop fooling around, but since there was no line behind me, he sat quietly, a Mona Lisa smile being his only expression.

My inner dialogue started: ‘Come on, quit coming down the ladder. You’re a top swimmer, diver and lifeguard trained; you should be able to do this.’ So up I went again, this time stepping off the ladder when I reached the top. 

‘Don’t look down,’ said my inner voice, ‘just look ahead, like in ballet, everything will be fine.’ But it was impossible not to look down; the children in the shallow end looked so small from my thirty-two-foot high perch. Butterflies turned to nausea, and I thought I might throw up.

The lifeguard seemed to know what would happen next, as he didn’t blow the whistle to alert the deep-end swimmers to an incoming dive. 

Back on the concrete, I was freezing. Blue lips. Red splotched skin. My clammy hands shook as my heart warned me. But my inner dialogue scolded me: ‘Seriously, you had it up there. Walk out and jump already because I’m not trying this when the pool is full of people. Get up there, and don’t come back down until you jump.’

So up I went, like a robot to my own command, a clammy, shaky, throbbing, nauseated robot. Stepping out onto the board a little further, the view was clearer. I grasped the metal handles, warmed by the sun and slippery from my sweaty palms. My feet would only move with specific instructions, so I directed them one before the other until we reached the end of the handrails. Oddly, I begin to think about how much scarier walking the plank is in real life than it was in a Disney movie.

I don’t know how long I stood there - it seemed like ages. I was white-knuckled, standing at the end of the rails three-quarters of the way down the board. To continue forward meant letting go - and not just of the rails. My rational brain agreed with my pounding chest: go backwards. But, if I could just let go for a moment, perhaps I might make it after all.

I took two steps back but quickly realized that the walk back was longer than the walk in front of me. I’d almost made it, and unknowingly, I decided to move forward.

Holding onto the rail with one hand, I lifted my left hand to pull my goggles down, then let go of the rail with both hands to adjust them. And there I was: dripping with hot and cold sweat as I stood in the sun, feet firmly frozen in place; with no one around, I looked inside of me for a source, something to help me act. My inner voice was quiet now, as was the world around me; my beating heart and quivering breath were the only sounds.

I stood up tall and faced the end of the board. I inhaled deeply, and as if guided by an invisible force, my shaky hands stopped reaching for the rails and settled by my side. A second later, I had arrived at the edge of the board.

Standing on the edge, holding my breath, I thought I’d better hurry up before I fainted. As I heard the lifeguard whistle blow, I put myself into a dive position and dropped.

‘I’m in the air!’ I remember thinking as everything became a blur. I was moving faster than I expected, and suddenly, all went silent underwater. 

I came up for air quickly, gasping in a big breath. The lifeguard clapped, smiling at me. ‘Wow!,’ I thought. The feeling of moving through the air was exhilarating, frightening, and amazing! 

Maybe it was because everything seemed to move in slow motion, but I was surprised at how much time it took to drop into the pool. Surely it would be quicker?

I swam to the side of the pool, got out and found myself up the ladder again with new confidence. I froze for a minute at the end of the rails; almost instinctively, I inhaled, exhaled, and walked to the end of the board, leaping off with a spring in my step.

The third time, I froze again at the end of the rails, but my mind was busy plotting: ‘I wonder how many flips I might be able to make in those seconds between the board and the water?’ I started with one, and it worked! The next time, I went for a double.

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It’s been years since I thought about that day. But, as I’m stepping into several ‘firsts,’ standing at the edge of my comfort zone, ready to explore more new experiences, I’ve felt that physical response return from time to time: fear. 

To help manage the jitters, I’ve gotten skilled at creating a metaphorical ladder, some scaffolding to support me in approaching my edge. Sure, a few tasks are included, but mostly, it’s about getting my inner house in order: mindset, energy, and habits–and becoming more fully aware that I can handle anything. 

These are no-lose situations; if I don’t try, I can’t succeed. If I fail, then I’m a success because I tried.

Yet I’m training with the discipline of an athlete, readying myself with sleep, exercise, nutrition, meditation, visualisation exercises, and steady practice, tapping into my inner sources of strength to propel me off the high dive day after day.  

I train because the discipline supports my learning. It helps me to approach new experiences more lightly, less seriously, because, as I’ve written about before, there’s no ‘right’ way or ‘wrong way,’ just more of life to experience. 

I’m inspired by this quote from the famous book by Susan Jeffers, Feel the Fear and Do it Anyway: 

“Start thinking about yourself as a lifetime student at a large university. Your curriculum is your total relationship with the world you live in, from the moment you’re born to the moment you die.  Each experience is a valuable lesson to be learned. If you choose Path A, you will learn one set of lessons. If you choose Path B, you will learn a different set of lessons. Geology or geometry–just a different teacher and different books to read, different homework to do, different exams to take. It really doesn’t matter. If you take Path A, you get to taste the strawberries. If you take Path B, you get to taste the blueberries. If you hate both strrawberries and blueberries, you can find another path. The trcky is simply to make whatever place you’re in your educational forum and learn everything you can about youself and the world around you. So–lighten up! Whatever happens as a result…you’ll handle it!”

If you’re facing fears and want some support getting your inner house in order so you can go after and achieve your greatest aspirations, please DM me here on Substack or LinkedIn; I’d love to see how we might work together.