You Don't Learn to Skydive by Standing in the Plane

I have been skydiving exactly one time.

One.

Because it was on my bucket list, and once was enough.

Now, before I ever got to the drop zone, I had a plan. Not just any plan; I had the plan.

I had signed up for a 30-second freefall. Thirty seconds felt manageable. I had rehearsed it in my mind over and over. I knew how I was going to breathe. I packed lemon balm to help calm my nerves. I had even picked out songs I was going to sing in my head while I was falling because I figured that if I was busy singing, I wouldn't be thinking about the fact that I had willingly jumped out of a perfectly good airplane.

I was prepared.

Or so I thought.

Then I arrived.

The instructor casually informed us that they don't do 30-second jumps on weekends.

We would be freefalling for 90 seconds instead.

Ninety.

My carefully rehearsed plan suddenly felt... inadequate.

I climbed into what can only be described as a crop duster with seats. Every bump in the air reminded me that I was thousands of feet above the ground. The plane bounced through air pockets while everyone around me laughed, cheered, and talked about how excited they were.

Meanwhile, my eyes were probably the size of silver dollars.

I wasn't excited.

I was terrified.

As we climbed to 14,000 feet, someone yelled, "Are you ready?"

Before I could even answer, one of the tandem instructors looked me directly in the eyes and said,

"You are not ready."

If his goal was to make me feel better... it missed the mark.

The door opened.

I watched my husband disappear from the airplane.

One second he was there.

The next second he wasn't.

Almost immediately, it was my turn.

We shuffled to the edge.

Then suddenly...

There was no airplane anymore.

There was just sky.

I wish I could tell you that all of my planning immediately kicked in.

It didn't.

One of the first things I had planned was my breathing. I was going to take slow, steady breaths all the way down.

Except no one had prepared me for what it feels like to have 120 miles per hour of air rushing into your face.

I couldn't figure out how to breathe.

Every time I tried, the wind seemed to fill my mouth. My brain kept trying to make my body do something that simply didn't work under those conditions.

By the time I finally figured it out, I realized we had already been falling for about thirty seconds.

Thirty seconds.

The amount of time I had originally signed up for.

Meanwhile, my arms were still stretched straight behind me instead of spread out like they had instructed. We were flying through the sky like a bullet. There was no graceful soaring. No cinematic moment where I suddenly felt free.

Just me trying to figure out how to exist in a situation my brain had never experienced before.

Then suddenly...

Everything changed.

The parachute opened.

The violent rush became quiet.

Instead of racing toward the ground, we began floating peacefully across the sky. I could still feel my stomach tied in knots, but every once in a while I caught myself thinking,

"This is actually... kind of nice."

Not because I had stopped being afraid.

Not because I suddenly loved skydiving.

But because my nervous system finally had enough information to realize I wasn't in immediate danger anymore.

When we landed, my tandem instructor asked,

"So... what was the best part?"

At first, I wanted to say, "Landing."

But the more I've reflected on that experience over the years, the more I've realized that wasn't the best part at all.

The best part was that I had decided to do something that genuinely scared me because I wanted the experience at least once in my life.

The fear didn't disappear.

The jump wasn't easier than I expected.

In many ways, it was harder.

Almost none of my carefully rehearsed plans unfolded the way I imagined they would.

And yet...

I still jumped.

I still experienced it.

I still made it to the ground.

What I brought home wasn't a love for skydiving. I've checked that one off the bucket list and have no desire to do it again.

What I brought home was something much more valuable.

Evidence.

Evidence that I could feel terrified, adapt when things didn't go according to plan, and do something difficult anyway.

That experience reminds me so much of what people expect therapy, and especially Dialectical Behavior Therapy (DBT)—to be.

Many people come into therapy hoping we'll teach them how to avoid emotional freefalls altogether.

"If I learn enough skills, maybe I won't panic."

"If I heal enough, maybe life won't feel so overwhelming."

"If I prepare enough, maybe nothing unexpected will happen."

But life doesn't work that way.

Sometimes the freefall is longer than you planned.

Sometimes the turbulence is worse than you imagined.

Sometimes someone says exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time.

Sometimes the plan you've carefully rehearsed falls apart before you've even had a chance to use it.

DBT doesn't promise you'll never find yourself in those moments.

It teaches something much more valuable.

It teaches you how to move through them.

Before anyone ever jumps out of an airplane, they spend time practicing.

They learn body position.

They learn how to respond if something doesn't go according to plan.

They learn how to land safely.

Not because they expect everything to go wrong...

But because panic is a terrible time to learn a new skill.

That's why we practice mindfulness, distress tolerance, emotion regulation, and interpersonal effectiveness before life falls apart.

Not because we're expecting disaster.

But because when emotions hit at full speed, our brains aren't in the best position to invent healthy coping strategies from scratch.

We fall back on what we've practiced.

Here's what I love most about DBT: the goal isn't to make you fearless.

The goal isn't to make sure you never panic.

The goal isn't even to make life predictable.

The goal is to help you become the kind of person who trusts yourself, even when life is unpredictable.

Every difficult conversation.

Every painful loss.

Every overwhelming emotion.

Every setback.

Every disappointment.

They're all opportunities to gather evidence.

Evidence that you can survive discomfort.

Evidence that you can adapt when your plans change.

Evidence that your emotions don't have to make your decisions for you.

The confidence we're trying to build in DBT doesn't come from avoiding hard things.

It comes from living through them.

One skill.

One moment.

One freefall at a time.

At Upstate Integrative Mind Counseling, we don't believe healing means eliminating fear or emotional pain. We believe healing comes from learning the skills that help you move through life's most difficult moments with greater awareness, flexibility, and confidence. If you're ready to begin building those skills, we'd be honored to walk alongside you.