There are two kinds of adventure.
The loud kind. And the quiet kind.
Last weekend, I did the loud kind. I jumped out of an airplane.
This story actually started years ago.
When my daughter Natalie was in high school, she casually mentioned she wanted to go skydiving someday. I remember saying, "I'm in." Over the years the conversation resurfaced more than once.
"When I turn eighteen." Then... "When I turn twenty-one."
Most of those conversations revolved around Natalie and her dad going together.
Every time I'd interrupt. "Hang on... I said I was going too."
If you know me, you know that's all it takes. Once I've said I'm doing something, I'm stubborn enough that backing out isn't really an option.
So when Natalie sent a text to our family a few weeks ago that simply said,
"Who's going skydiving?" ...there wasn't much discussion. Within an hour we'd found the same drop zone. Paid our deposits. And committed.
The funny part is, skydiving wasn't really what I'd been craving. I'd been craving quiet. (Truthfully I had just asked my husband about a dive trip - underwater diving is what I meant).
The last few years have been full. Beautifully full. Sapana has grown in ways I couldn't have imagined. I've put myself out there on social media. We've designed new collections. Expanded our store. Met incredible people.
But every blessing seems to bring another decision. Another responsibility. Another problem to solve. I could feel the overwhelm creeping back in.
I kept telling myself I needed to get back to the gym. Eat better. Take care of myself. Maybe sneak away on a scuba diving trip.
For whatever reason, diving in the ocean has always quieted my brain. Underwater, I'm completely present. I assumed that was the only place I knew how to find that feeling. I was wrong.
Between booking the jump and getting on the plane, I accidentally discovered something.
Every time my mind wanted to rehearse everything that could go wrong... I interrupted it. I'd simply tell myself, "Yep... you're going skydiving Saturday." That's it. No negotiating. No catastrophizing. No replaying every possible disaster. Just acceptance.
The strangest thing happened. The fear never really had a chance to grow.
When we arrived at the airfield, I expected tension. Instead there were donkeys wandering around. People laughing. Parachutes being folded with incredible care. Friends greeting each other.
It felt less like walking into danger... and more like walking into a community.
Then we climbed into the plane. I sat by the door. I was jumping first. The ground slowly disappeared beneath the clouds.
I kept waiting for panic. It never came. The door opened. We jumped.
People keep asking me if I was terrified.
Honestly? That's not what I remember.
What I remember is overwhelming joy. The kind that fills every corner of your mind until there's simply no room left for fear. For a few minutes, life became incredibly simple. Just the wind. The sky. Pure presence.
I landed, watched Natalie land, we hugged - then sent the boys up in the plane after us.
Natalie was giddy. My husband and our friend, Kelly, were the same. We went home - excitedly recounting the morning but also exhausted.
Took a quick nap. Got a tire fixed. Bought groceries. Picked up watercolor paints.
Every once in a while Natalie and I would catch each other's eye and laugh. "We went skydiving this morning." Life has a funny way of doing that. Extraordinary moments somehow fit right inside ordinary days.
I've been thinking about why that feeling has stayed with me. Don't' laugh ... but of course I can relate it to wearing a blanket coat.
Not because they're adventurous. Because they give me courage. There are days I reach for one because it feels like wrapping myself in reassurance. They make me feel grounded and they truly soften the edges of the world sometimes.
But there are other days when I reach for that exact same coat for a different reason -because I decide to style it differently. A little bolder. A little less expected.
The coat didn't change. My mood did.
Maybe that's what I've been learning lately. Confidence isn't always loud. Sometimes it looks like stepping onto an airplane. Sometimes it looks like wearing the thing you've been saving for a special occasion. Sometimes it's saying yes before you have every answer. Sometimes it's simply deciding not to let fear have the microphone.
I don't think I'll wait another six months, or six years to shake things up.
I don't need to jump out of an airplane every weekend. (Although... I can absolutely see myself doing it again.) But I do want to keep collecting moments that remind me I'm still growing.
Some adventures will be big. Some will be wonderfully ordinary. Some might simply be wearing the coat hanging my your closet in a way I've never tried before.
Because here's what I brought home from 13,000 feet: Joy takes up space. Maybe enough space that, if we let it, there isn't much room left for fear.
And that's a perspective worth practicing.
