Jump Anyways

What skydiving taught me about fear, faith, and surrender

I don’t know what possessed me to say yes.

Maybe it was the adrenaline of being in Hawaii, or the high of wedding weekend energy, or the fact that my teammate’s fiancé said it so casually—like we were grabbing coffee and not jumping out of a plane. Either way, I found myself strapped to a barefoot man named Chris, in a tiny aircraft with the doors wide open at 14,000 feet.

It was January, the first morning of 2025. A teammate was getting married, and I was lucky enough to celebrate in one of the most magical places I’ve ever been. Most people start the year with a list of resolutions or intentions. I accidentally started mine by signing a waiver that said, in small print: skydiving may result in death.

Going skydiving the morning of the wedding was certainly not in my plans (thank you, Kevin and Katie). I would never call myself a thrill seeker. I like plans, organization, and efficiency. My mom calls me “particular,” which is her gentle way of saying I can be difficult. She’s not wrong. I like things done a certain way, and after so many years of living on my own, I’ve gotten stuck in my ways.

Katie, Kevin, and I arrived at the airstrip on the North Shore of Oahu at 7:30 AM. We spent the first few hours signing paperwork—aka signing our lives away—and watching earlier appointments land in the field. Thirty minutes before we jumped, we were paired off with our instructors.

Chris came up to me with lightness exuding from him. He was about my height, with sun-kissed skin, tattoos, and no shoes. This last detail was oddly comforting—because as uncool as all my teammates love to remind me it is, I’m obsessed with barefoot shoes. I believe in connecting with the earth physically. So when Chris walked up barefoot, I was pumped.

He had my harness on in three minutes, chatting the whole time about what to do once we jumped. At one point, he asked casually, “Do you get motion sick?” I shrugged and said, “I’ve never had a problem before.” I meant it—though in hindsight, that answer aged poorly.

Then he walked away to join the other instructors, and I looked over at Katie and Kevin, who were now suited up too. I gave them a tight-lipped smile and silently prayed Chris had tightened all the straps properly.

The speaker buzzed on just as the adrenaline started to kick in.

“Everyone jumping in Group 4, please make your way to the airstrip.”

There were six of us, each with an instructor, walking toward the plane as it landed. Chris and I loaded up first. There were no real seats—just two long benches down the center of the cabin. We crawled back and straddled them like we were lining up for a rollercoaster in the sky.

The flight up was a blur. It was too loud to talk, so everyone sat with their own nerves. I stared out the window at the turquoise water and green mountains, trying to ground myself in the beauty of it all.

As we neared jumping altitude, Chris began attaching my harness to his. I was seated in front of him, my back pressed to his chest. When he tightened the straps with so much force I instantly had the best posture of my life, my paranoia finally quieted. If I go down, I thought, this man is going down with me.

One by one, people began jumping.

My eyes widened as the door opened. Chris grabbed my helmet, turned my head, and screamed into my ear:

“If we jump and you forget all the instructions—don’t worry. I got you.”

As crazy as it sounds, my body relaxed. I was three feet from an open plane door, and all I could think was: thank God, because I already forgot everything.

Within seconds, everyone but Katie and me had disappeared. We exchanged nervous smiles.

Chris yelled, “Let’s do this!”

Nobody tells you how hard it is to waddle-scoot down a bench seat at 14,000 feet with a grown man strapped to your back. I was trying my best to be graceful when—suddenly—my feet lifted off the floor and Chris moved us toward the door with this wild spider-like speed.

And then we jumped.

The most anticipated moment of the whole thing—the jump—was over before I could count to one. Chris grabbed the bar above the door, swung us around, and we rolled out backward.

Then… bliss.

My stomach didn’t drop. Fear didn’t flood my veins. The only thing I felt was freedom.

We were in free fall for one minute. Then he pulled the parachute.

Now, if the story ended there, it would’ve been the picture-perfect jump. But back on the ground, Chris circled back. “So… you don’t get motion sick, huh?”

Looking back, I said that with the inflated ego of someone who just jumped out of a plane. I thought I was some big bad daredevil. But here’s the thing: while I’ve never gotten motion sick in a car or plane, I’d also never done tornado spins at 10,000 feet.

We were floating peacefully when Chris said, “Are you ready?”

I might have said yes. But I should have screamed no. He started spinning us like a tornado, then went “no gravity,” and in that moment, I knew I had made a mistake.

The final part of the jump is the “running landing.” The idea is to “hit the ground running, and keep running.” Meanwhile, I was thinking two things:

Was I about to throw up all over Chris?
And also—was my fifth knee surgery from five months ago about to become a problem?

Kevin had jumped before me. He didn’t quite nail the running part, but he did nail the hitting-the-ground part. (Sorry, Kevin.)

“Now!” Chris yelled.

My instincts took over. I started pumping my legs, we hit the ground, and—miraculously—nailed the landing.

I stood there in the airfield, gathering every ounce of pride I’ve ever had and willing my body to keep it together. Chris turned the camera on me, smiling and saying how stoked he was to have jumped with me. Meanwhile, I looked like a dog about to throw up—the kind of weird smile dogs do right before it happens.

Katie and Kevin had to pay for my jump while I sat in the car gripping the door handle like I was on my deathbed. I’m forever grateful. Because for the next four hours, I was wrecked.

Turns out, I do get motion sick.

But I also got something else.

I look back on that experience and laugh—but I also realize that I started off 2025 getting yelled the best life advice through a helmet:

“Don’t worry…I got you.”

We spend so much time preparing. Planning. Controlling every little variable. And then comes a moment—a jump, a decision, a shift—that no amount of preparation can fully prepare us for.

That’s when trust becomes the only option.

Everyone’s “Chris” is different. Sometimes it’s a person. Sometimes it’s a moment that reminds you you’re not alone. Sometimes it’s something deeper—a quiet belief that even if you fall, you'll be caught in some way.

Everyone’s “faith” looks different. I’m not here to tell you what to believe in. But I do know this:

The most important part is jumping. And trusting, somehow, that the parachute will open—even if you don’t know what it will look like, or when it will catch you.

Fear and doubt will always be there. But they don’t get to drive anymore.

So... jump anyways.

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