Bungee Jump: Dangling Over the Edge

What Bungee Jumping Taught Me About Fear, Connection, and Possibility

Last week, I jumped off a bridge.

Not metaphorically—like a bold career move or a grand romantic gesture. I literally jumped off a bridge in the San Gabriel Mountains with nothing but a harness, a rope, and a pounding heart to catch me.

It all started with a five-mile hike that wound through the cliffs and rivers of San Gabriel. The trail itself was stunning—sunlight scattered across jagged rocks, crystal-clear streams snaking along the path, and that steady, grounding rhythm of nature that somehow makes your thoughts louder and your soul quieter. Every step pulled me further away from city noise and closer to something else—something raw and real.

Somewhere along the trail, I met someone. Just a fellow hiker at first, but conversations have a way of deepening when you're off-grid and shoulder-to-shoulder with a stranger under the open sky. What started as casual chatter turned into something unfiltered. We talked about the things we hide—fears, regrets, unfulfilled dreams, and that deep, restless ache for more. It wasn’t small talk. It was soul talk.

And then... came the bridge.

I didn’t feel scared—until I was.

Until I stood on the edge, toes curled over metal grating, staring down at the rocky canyon floor far, far below. That’s when it hit. The panic. The silence. The holy shit, I’m really doing this moment. No best friend beside me. No hand to hold. Just me, a stranger-turned-confidant a few steps back, and a drop that demanded everything I had.

That moment of standing there—utterly alone—was more terrifying than the fall itself. I wasn’t just wrestling with gravity. I was wrestling with the part of me that always wants someone else to go first. The part that still wonders: Can I really do this on my own?

And then I jumped. A literal Leap of Faith.

The fall was instant—sharp, fast, and free. There was no time to second-guess. Just wind, silence, and the absolute surrender of letting go. I don’t remember the details of the drop, but I remember the feeling: raw, exhilarating, alive.

And then—just as suddenly—the rope caught me. I bounced. I breathed. I laughed. I floated. And all I could think was: I did it.

I jumped off a bridge.

Alone.

By choice.

And something in me shifted.

There’s a unique fear that comes with doing something without backup—without your usual people, without the hype squad, without that reassuring hand on your shoulder. But there’s also a unique power in it. A kind of deep, unshakable knowing that you can do hard things, even if no one else is watching. Even if no one else is holding you up.

I walked away from that bridge with shaky legs, a full heart, and a sense of possibility I hadn’t felt in a long time. Not just because I faced a physical fear, but because I realized how many invisible bridges I’ve avoided jumping from in my life—relationships, risks, hard conversations, creative pursuits—just because I was afraid to go it alone.

But now I know: if I can jump off a bridge, what else am I capable of? If I can do it so can you, take the leap!

Feeling inspired to leap into your own "bridge moment"? I'd love to hear your stories—fears you've faced, risks you've taken, or the solo journeys that cracked you wide open. Drop them in the comments. Let's talk about the power of choosing yourself.

Check out the rest of my growing bucket list.