I was trapped in the middle of a civil war--a war however, without soldiers. The only casualties were disappointment and indecisiveness. My personality was split in half. The audacious side taunted, “Go for it--what do you have to lose?” The cautious party, however, quickly chimed in to remind me exactly what I had to lose, urging me to reconsider every variable, every possible outcome. Usually, the latter party would win, and my conscience signed a hasty truce with itself, only to collapse at the advent of another disagreement. I was surprised therefore, when my personal dictator discredited an obvious mutiny. I stole back my courage and committed to end the war.

I had wanted to go skydiving since I was 14 years old. Not only did it look fun, but how many people can say that they voluntarily jumped out of a plane? I read everything I could on the subject of extreme sports. I watched YouTube videos of people falling through the atmosphere. I saved up birthday, Christmas, even Easter money that was naively gifted to me by grandparents ignorant of my risky bucket list. I was convinced that I would prove my inner-coward wrong. Whenever my tentative personality surfaced, I wanted to be able to silence it. “I jumped out of a plane, I survived, I had fun. I can do anything!”

My inspired idea however, was nearly shot down multiple times by motherly affection and a strong conviction that the only reason one should ever jump out of a plane is if said plane is on fire. After two years of begging, safety assurance videos, and probably inaccurate but extremely parent-conscious statistics, I was able to wear her down.

July 5, 2014 my entire family accompanied me to the airport. My father came to analyze whether or not he would want to skydive in the future. My mother came to will the parachute to open, choosing to believe that her mere presence would fix any imaginary problems with the canopy. My siblings heard the key words “life threatening” and “dangerous,” and decided that watching me fall out of a plane wasn’t a terrible way to spend their Friday afternoon.

We arrived at around 2:00 p.m. The day was warm. The combination of hot wind and no clouds assured a favorable skydiving experience, but allowed for little shade. The airport was barely more than a sidewalk surrounded by grain silos. We arrived at the place deemed “Skydive Check-in.” The business was a field of dandelions and clovers holding a worn trailer in the middle, the once white paint having faded to a dingy grey many years ago. Three men sitting in broken lawn chairs seemed the only occupants, accompanied by two women bulging out of their plus-sized t-shirts and chasing after toddlers. For the first time, I began to have doubts.

I walked up the trailer’s ramp into the air-condition-less office. A lady wearing a tight black tank top and a denim skirt that looked like a plato fun-factory explosion greeted me. She had fluorescent pink hair, and introduced herself as Ninja-Monkey. A folding table served as her desk, on which were two desktop computers, cluttered, coffee-stained papers, and three bowls of warm, fly-bitten fruit. She smiled at me and then paused.

“Hurry up and smoke, ‘cause you can’t smoke in the harness!” she called to a tattooed man standing outside about to light a cigarette. A million questions were running through my head right now. Is that man going to be the one pushing me out of a plane? Not that I am prejudiced against people who smoke, but doesn’t falling through the air at 120 miles-per-hour require adequate lung capacity? What if he passes out? Why is a skydiving business being run out of the back of a trailer? What’s Ninja-Monkey’s real name? Why doesn’t she refrigerate her fruit?

Ninja-Monkey proceeded to hand me a ten-page packet of rules, release waivers, and legal institutions I could not utilize if I did in fact die. She found a pen amongst the clutter, and told me to sign, date, and initial about forty different paragraphs. I sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair and skimmed the release forms. I knew that I should read them all the way through, but I was too excited. My hands shook as I signed my life away. They returned to normal, however, somewhere between the words “mortal injury” and “decapitation.” My courageous side began to rally, and I was ready to skydive.

I was tandem skydiving, which meant that I would be harnessed to someone with a parachute who would pull the ripcord, and do pretty much everything else. My instructor’s name was Eric. Thankfully, he was not the man Ninja had yelled at earlier for smoking. He directed me to a tent hastily constructed by a plastic tarp and a few metal poles. I slipped into the harness, and Eric made sure that the straps were sufficiently tightened (I learned this meant so tight that I couldn’t walk upright). He finished securing the main straps with rubber bands. Great. My fate now rested in a millimeter of latex.

I waddled over to the—uh—plane. Calling it a plane is a bit of a stretch, as it more resembled a port-a-potty with wings. It was just bulky enough to cram the pilot and a few carry-on suitcases in the back. We managed to fit the pilot plus four full-grown people. Usually, I wouldn’t have minded the close quarters. My instructor however, candidly informed me that the plane was the smallest he had ever had to jump from, and the smaller the plane, the more complicated the jump.

We taxied and took off. We took about 15 minutes to reach 10,000 feet, which was the elevation at which we were to jump. Eric spent those 15 minutes tightening my harness even more (which I didn’t even think was possible) and trying to get my goggles to stay over my ponytail. I was squished against the back of the cabin. I could stretch my arms in front and to the side of me, and I could easily touch the other wall with almost a foot in each direction to spare. My knees were pressed against my chest. I felt like I was suspended in an aluminum oven. By the time we were ready to jump, the temperature inside the cabin had soared to almost 100 degrees, and the plane was shakily moving at around 120 miles per hour.

Now came the moment I had anticipated for years. I quietly watched as the first group fell out of sight. I suddenly remembered that I was about to jump out of a plane, attached to a total stranger, relying on nothing but a big backpack filled with a glorified bed sheet. God, give these rubber bands strength!

“Just relax and have fun,” was Eric’s advice. I had received no training and had no experience. I was vulnerable and helpless. But I wasn’t afraid.

We reached the end of the door. My feet hung over the edge of the world. Everything I cared about was below me. Everything I had to lose was inside the plane.

Without warning, Eric catapulted us into the air. I watched as my feet left the plane. I left behind my crutch, my only way of escape. I had chosen to jump off of what I knew was secure. I deserted safety to embrace the unknown, the dangerous. I somersaulted through the atmosphere, letting the patchwork quilt of farmland pull me closer to freedom. The wind raced through my clothes, my open mouth, my hair. I was smiling. I was flying. The war was over; I was free.