learning to allow fear (or just panic a little less)

flying, i hate it to my bones. not in a rational way. in a deep, primal way—this metal tube is a death trap, and i am a fool for trusting physics. i try to borrow calm from the flight attendants. i recite statistics like a mantra: turbulence is just air. you are more likely to die in a car crash. my brain nods. my body stiff, my hands clinging to the armrests like they’re the last remnants of sanity.

i’ve tried everything: closing my eyes, breathing exercises, meditation while my thoughts scream we are going to die, spinning stories about a bigger plan. none of it works. because it’s not about the plane. it’s about surrender—being strapped into a chair, hurtling through the sky, and realising—with terrifying clarity—that i am not in control. and that hurts. not like a cut or a bruise, but like a truth i don’t want to know.

the worst part? when i run out of distractions. when there’s nothing left but me, the hum of the engines, and the vast, indifferent sky. that’s when the fear stops being background noise and becomes a scream. you are going to die. you are going to die. you are going to— and of course that's the moment we hit turbulence.

i hate to admit i’ve already spent four years in advanced studies learning how to meet fear with presence, how to let it move through the body like a current or a wave you can ride. and yet, here i am, 30,000 feet in the air, and all that practice might as well be a theory i read once in a book. as a client on the table in a session, i can sometimes get there—let fear move me, let it breathe, let it be loud as hell and pleasurable as heaven, it gives a sense of aliveness and the surrender into it creates space for the body to heal itself. but in this metal tube? fear isn’t just in the room. i am the one who turnes it into the whole damn room.

in the plane, i feel it rise—that electric, alive energy—and my body’s first instinct is to lock down. to brace, to tense, to turn fear into something i need to protect myself from. my muscles clench. my breath turns shallow. my hands grip the armrests like they’re the only thing keeping me from falling. and in that moment, i realise: i’m not just feeling fear—it’s all i can feel. i’m turning reality into a place i can’t bear to be. i’m not resisting fear. i’m resisting this—the raw encounter with reality. the intensity of not knowing, of having no control. and in that resistance, i’m not protecting myself—i’m trapping myself. i’m making the energy louder, heavier, until all i can feel is my own refusal to meet what’s here.

the price? i’m not just afraid—i’m isolated. cut off from the sky, the clouds, the moment, because i’m too busy fighting what’s trying to keep me here.

so I stop. not because i’ve figured it out, but because i can’t keep paying that price. but because my body is exhausted. my shoulders ache from tensing. my jaw hurts from clenching. because i’m tired of missing my own life. because what else am i going to do—spend the whole flight at war with my own body?

i let go. just enough to breathe, to let the energy move because my body demands it. and something shifts—not the fear—me. the energy stays, alive and crackling, but i stop making it bigger than it is. i let it be what it is: a pulse, a current, something moving through me. a wave i can ride.

and then—if i’m lucky—i remember to look outside. and i am met with the vastness of the sky, and feel a sense of grandness, and open up to a new love for life. the clouds look like an ocean you could fall into. the mountains a memory of the millions of years of existence, the light turns everything gold. for a second, i forget to be worried and i am reminded of a deeper truth. for a second, i’m just a body, small and alive, suspended between earth and sky.

and there i am, not just feeling fear—but feeling everything.

from 30,000 feet, looking down at the alps. from up here, the mountains don't ask for my trust. they don't care about my fear. they simply are—ancient, steady, holding space for whatever unfolds. and for a moment, so can i.