Back in my freshman year of college, I developed a pretty healthy fear of heights. I was taking a military science class, and one day we were challenged to rappel off a tower—backward, of course, and fully strapped into all the proper safety gear. I knew, intellectually, that I wasn’t in danger. Still, when it was my turn to step off the edge, every instinct in my body screamed no. I did it, but something stuck. Ever since then, high places have made me uneasy.
Which is ironic, because I have very little patience for irrational fear.
There’s healthy fear—the kind that keeps you alive. Fire burns. Rattlesnakes bite. Standing in the middle of the road rarely ends well. Those fears make sense. They’re grounded in reality. But irrational fears? Being afraid of milk, or your closet, or crossing a bridge, or standing somewhere high and secure? Those don’t sit well with me. If something poses no real danger on its own, it shouldn’t have lifelong control over us.
And yet… here I am. Afraid of heights.
I know it doesn’t make sense. I know the fear isn’t logical. But knowing that hasn’t made it disappear.
Last year, I decided to poke at it a little. I went on a zipline tour that included a quarter-mile run through a tall forest. It was exhilarating. I even enjoyed it. And for a moment, I thought maybe the fear was gone. It isn’t—but it’s quieter now. Less bossy. Less certain it gets the final word.
So what would it take to push back even more?
Honestly? A plane and a parachute.
Under the right circumstances—and with a tandem instructor who knows exactly what they’re doing—I’d probably jump out of a plane. Not because I love heights. Not because I’m fearless. But because every deliberate step toward an irrational fear takes away a little of its power.
So yes. I’m serious.
Anyone have a plane and a parachute?
Copyright © 2026 Doug DeBolt.
