A Ferris wheel once stopped being an amusement ride the moment fear took hold of me high above the ground. My dread of heights has embarrassed me before, and it still rules parts of my life. Still, I refuse to dismiss it as mere cowardice, even as I stand in awe of people who appear able to command the very fear that commands me.
One of my most unforgettable defeats happened when I accompanied my little daughter on a Ferris wheel because she was eager to ride. I boarded with the honorable intention of being a dependable father, but somewhere above the fairground, dignity slipped out of the carriage. I shouted instructions at the operator to stop the wheel while I was still hanging in the air—as though stopping it at its highest point could improve matters. My daughter had wanted an adventure; she ended up beside a father issuing emergency orders to a man operating a perfectly ordinary carnival ride.
The incident was funny to everyone safely below, but embarrassment feels different when you’re trapped between the sky and an amused crowd. A fear of heights does not wait for reason to finish speaking. The mind may know that the carriage is secured, yet the body behaves as if gravity has filed a personal complaint. The hands tighten, the stomach turns, and every small movement feels like a warning. At such moments, courage is not absent because of choice; it is simply drowned out by an alarm that is louder than common sense.
Mayon Volcano taught me the same lesson on a much grander scale. During a trip to its higher side, I could no longer bear the sight of the rising elevation. I disembarked from the minibus and waited for it to return from the summit, surrendering my place while the others continued upward. There I was, beneath one of the country’s most magnificent natural landmarks, unable to appreciate its height because my mind had already converted beauty into danger. Mayon remained majestic; I remained firmly attached to the lower ground.
Air travel has not made peace with me, either. Boarding an airplane is still a form of mental torture, beginning long before the aircraft leaves the runway. Other passengers settle into their seats, adjust their pillows, and browse the entertainment menu; I become acutely aware that a heavy machine carrying hundreds of lives is about to rise thousands of feet above the earth. Scientific explanations about lift, engines, and aviation safety are reassuring—until the cabin door closes. Knowledge helps, but fear has never been famous for respecting facts.
This is why people who jump from airplanes for adventure leave me both astonished and bewildered. I enter an aircraft hoping to remain inside it until landing; they pay good money to leave it in midair. Mountain climbers puzzle me in much the same way. They look at a steep wall of rock and see a challenge, while I see an excellent reason to admire the mountain from a sensible distance. Where do they find the nerve to trust a parachute, a rope, a narrow ledge, or their own footing when the ground lies so far below?
Their courage, however, is rarely the absence of fear. Skydivers train, inspect their equipment, follow procedures, and rely on experienced instructors. Serious climbers study routes, weather, physical limits, and safety systems. What appears to me as effortless bravery is often disciplined control: fear is present, but it has been given a proper seat instead of the steering wheel. That realization deepens my admiration for them. They do not necessarily possess a different kind of heart; they may simply have taught their hearts how to remain steady.
I may never leap from an airplane or greet a mountain summit as casually as others do, and perhaps I do not need to. Yet I also do not want fear to keep choosing my boundaries without resistance. The better answer may begin with small, safe encounters with height, honest acceptance of my reactions, and professional help if the fear continues to interfere with ordinary life. Courage, for me, need not wear a parachute or stand triumphantly on a peak. It may simply mean rising a little higher than before—and remaining there long enough to breathe.
