I am not big on fear.
That is not because I am especially brave. It may be because I am stubborn. There is probably a fine psychological line between courage and “Oh, no, you don’t,” and I have spent a good bit of my life standing somewhere on that line waving a small flag.
I hate giving in to fear. I always have.
My ex-wife had a huge fear of going over bridges, mostly because the structure over the top made her feel claustrophobic. I never really understood that one. I understood that she felt it, of course, but I could not make my brain get there with her.
I have the same reaction when students see a cockroach in the classroom and leap onto their desks as though the thing has just announced plans to eat them in alphabetical order. I know roaches are disgusting. I know they are too fast, too confident, and apparently indestructible. But unless one of them is wearing a tiny saddle and carrying a spear, I am probably not going to surrender the room to it.
But I do have one fear.
Heights.
Or more specifically, looking down from heights.
I do not mind going up high. I can climb. I can ride. I can stand somewhere elevated and appreciate the view as long as my eyes remain focused on the horizon, the sky, or literally anything other than the horrifying little ants walking around below me who are apparently people.
I know exactly where that fear started.
During my freshman year at Stetson, I took a military science elective during winter term. At the end of the course, the officers took us out to the rappelling tower and gave us the opportunity to rappel down the face of it, apparently as though we were launching some sort of bold military assault on the campus.
The ROTC cadets got us suited up with ropes, harnesses, and all the gear that says, “This is perfectly safe,” while your brain says, “Then why does everyone keep checking the knots?”
I was excited. Truly excited. I climbed the tower with no problem. I got to the top with no problem. I was ready.
Then I got into position to go down.
That is when the officer told me to lean back.
So I leaned back.
“More,” he said.
I leaned back more.
“More.”
At that point, I felt like I was leaning back far enough that I was about to become the first freshman in Stetson history to rappel upside down directly into the afterlife.
Panic welled up inside me in a way I had never felt before. It was immediate. It was physical. It was not a polite fear tapping me on the shoulder. It was fear kicking the door open and yelling, “We live here now.”
I finally said, “Not today.”
Then I pulled myself back onto the tower and did the walk of shame back down to the base.
I hated that feeling. I hated knowing fear had stopped me. I hated that I had climbed up excited and climbed down defeated.
Thankfully, before the end of the term, they gave us a second chance.
Once again, I suited up. Once again, I climbed the tower. Once again, everything was fine until I had to lean back over the edge and trust the rope, the gear, the people around me, and the laws of physics, which suddenly seemed less reliable than they had in science class.
The fear came back.
Then the colonel in charge of the unit came over to me. He was not exactly radiating warmth and emotional support. He did not put a gentle hand on my shoulder and say, “Doug, let’s process this together.”
Instead, he said something along the lines of, “The only way down is over that side, so either you rappel down or I throw you off.”
I weighed the two options carefully. I decided rappelling sounded better.
He was suited up, too, and he took a position to my right. He told me to do what he did. Step by step, movement by movement, I followed him down the face of that tower.
And I did it. I made it from the top to the bottom. I had overcome the thing that terrified me.
But here is the strange part. The fear of heights did not magically disappear. Ever since then, when I look down from a height, I get this awful sensation that my feet are about to go over my head and I am going to plummet to the ground. My body reacts before my brain can remind it that we are standing on a perfectly solid surface and nobody has asked us to audition for a cartoon.
So I still have the fear. But I try not to give it the steering wheel.
Every time I get a chance to challenge it, I do. I have been ziplining in Highlands, North Carolina, twice. The biggest run on that course is about a quarter-mile long and more than 200 feet off the ground.
And I want to do it again.
That probably sounds insane. Why would someone who is afraid of heights voluntarily zipline 200 feet in the air?
Because the scenery is beautiful. Because the experience is exhilarating. Because once you are clipped in and flying through the trees, fear does not get to have the whole story. It may still show up, but so does wonder. So does joy. So does the quiet satisfaction of knowing that the thing that scares you did not get to keep you on the ground.
That, I think, is the point. We are not supposed to live in fear.
Fear exists for a reason. Some fears are useful. If you are afraid of man-eating lions, that is not a character flaw. That is wisdom with teeth. If you are afraid of poisonous snakes, congratulations, your survival instincts are functioning nicely.
But some fears do not protect us. They shrink us.
They convince us to avoid perfectly good parts of life. They tell us to stay away from beautiful views, hard conversations, new opportunities, meaningful risks, and experiences that might become some of our favorite memories.
As a Christian, I also believe God when He tells us not to fear and to trust Him. That does not mean I never feel afraid. It does not mean my knees stop wobbling just because I know the Bible verse. It means fear does not get the final vote.
Trust does.
Sometimes that trust looks bold and confident. Sometimes it looks like stepping backward off a rappelling tower while a colonel provides encouragement that would probably not be approved in most modern counseling programs.
Sometimes it looks like signing up for the zipline again.
Fear may still whisper. But I do not have to obey it.
And every time I refuse to let fear keep me from something good, I end up a little closer to God, a little more alive, and a little more convinced that the view was worth it.
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Copyright © 2026 Doug DeBolt.
