A couple of weeks ago my family and I went to the mountains on spring break.  

It was not a “vacation” for the grownups, but it was a week full of building family memories, resilience, new experiences, fun.  We visited outdoor wineries, saw snowflakes and sunshine at the same time, shopped at the old general store, swam in the indoor pool, and hiked on trails.

At Grandfather Mountain in North Carolina, there’s a famous “mile-high swinging bridge” at the top of the mountain, with stunning views across the Blue Ridge mountains, into the valley, and on a clear day across hundreds of miles to the city skyline of Charlotte.  It’s the pinnacle of a tourist visit to this park.  

As a family we hiked up the trail to access the bridge, without an agenda in mind.  My youngest powered up the rocky trail like a boss, one boot at a time, keeping us a fast pace and feeling very proud of himself. 

When we got to the top, my oldest son and his dad agreed to cross the mile-high swinging bridge together.  It’s actually only 80 feet above the canyon below, and it doesn’t swing much, but it whistles in the powerful wind and looms impressively over the cliffs to each side.

My palms are sweating just thinking about it.

Y’all, I’m afraid of heights.  In my life I have done rock climbing, I’ve visited the tall towers in Chicago, and I’ve kissed the Blarney Stone in Ireland.  But especially as I get older, my body breaks down at the thought of high heights.

We arrived at the bridge access as a family.  My husband looked at me and my youngest and asked, “Are y’all going too?”  The four-year-old chirped, “Yeah!!”  And I immediately chorted, “I’m not going to hold him back.  We’re going.”

I took some deep breaths and thought about how I coach people through professional and personal fear.  I visualized walking across the bridge hand in hand.  I’m ready, I said out loud.

I clutched my son’s hand and we started off on the bridge behind his dad and brother.  People came inching by us from the other side, some in masks and some without, and I could feel the wind whipping around and whistling at us.  It was not awesome. I took tiny, shuffling steps, and probably only made a few more feet before my legs felt like jelly. 

I didn’t want my kids to see my fear and be influenced by it.  But here I was, almost incapacitated by my fear of heights.  I didn’t feel like I could keep my son safe up there in that condition.  Even though we were moving at a snail’s pace, it felt too fast for me.

In a scratchy voice I called out ahead, “Kevin!  Please slow down!” 

He turned around and saw my panic.  We scooted back off the bridge as a family and tears were streaming behind my sunglasses and onto my mask.  I crumpled onto the steps.

My kids, unfazed and charmingly empathetic, immediately sat to comfort me. “Why are you crying Mommy?”  “It’s OK to be scared, Mommy.”  “You don’t have to do the bridge, Mommy.” 

I hadn’t wanted them to see my fear or be influenced by it.   I didn’t want to “ruin” the good day with my fearful episode.  I felt like I had failed as a co-parent.

And yet, here they were, entirely fine and unaffected and demonstrating resilience, empathy, and compassion. 

“Everyone feels scared sometimes, Mommy.”

My oldest stayed with me while Kevin took the 4-year-old across, then he came back and switched.  While the boys sat with me, we organized small rocks into rows and I breathed slowly until I could feel my legs again.

The boys all happily reported the bridge “was cool” and we hiked back down the trail slowly together. Occasionally a dog would come by and frighten my youngest.  When he startled, I picked him up or moved him off the trail briefly and asked how he felt.

“Mommy you’re scared of the bridge and I’m scared of the dogs.”

“You’re right, Milo.  Today we felt scared of those things.  But we helped each other.  Maybe next time we won’t feel scared.” 

I didn’t talk about it much more after that, but I thanked my sweet family for being kind to me when I was feeling bad. 

Later that night my husband reassured me, too.  “I hope you don’t feel like you failed.  It wasn’t wrong to show them that.”

If I had pretended not to be afraid, like I usually do, my kids would not have had the chance to practice their empathy and connect with me about their own fears.  They know I’m human, too, and we’re in it together.  The goal is not to be fearless or flawless.  The goal is to be connected.  To build bridges across the ravines of human experience.  To stick together.  

Sometimes when we’re so focused on progress and improvement and ideals, we forget to let ourselves be human.  And when we allow ourselves to be human, and allow hard moments to pass, we make it easier for others to do the same. 

The voice of fear calls to each of us daily.  I often say that should listen to her, acknowledge her, and move forward anyway when we are ready.  Sometimes we can walk forward with fear, saying “I hear you.  Thank you for protecting me. But I’m ready to move forward.”  With my own professional fears, this mantra has worked well.

Sometimes fear calls louder than others.  Sometimes the bridge across is a mile-high and swinging.   Sometimes it stops us in our tracks.   Sometimes we need a little help to recover.

It’s not failure to be in conversation with fear.  It’s human.