When I finished my first year of university exams, my older sister gave me a Skype call. Not to just congratulate me, but to invite me on a whirlwind rollerblading adventure around Switzerland.
“We’ll leave in three days.” She had announced. Of course, I agreed. So off we set, two girls weighed down with two backpacks brimming with hazelnuts, roller skates and endless packets of freeze fried food.
Ten days into the trip and we stopped off in a town called Interlaken. It’s an adrenaline junkie’s dream – full of hiking, bunjee jumping, river rafting and as I found out, canyon swinging. There I found myself, on the side of a sheer drop hovering over a little wooden ledge.
I was terrified. The rope was loose, I had a 40ft drop ahead of me and nothing but a fairly jovial instructor to help me. I had to jump – and face the unknown
I remember my feet being pushed out over the edge and my hands gripping what felt like a very unstable safety rope. And hating it – hating every second of it. But I jumped anyway – I took the risk and went for it. It was amazing after that initial freefall.
Now, I find myself asking myself the same thing again – why not take the jump? My feet are constantly hovering over the side. There’s this gap between me and the beneath – and yet I’m still hanging on to that damn rope. Perhaps it’s time for a little more leaping and a little less clinging.