riding roller coasters and other musings about fear
the second post of all posts!
I have never been a person who seeks out unnecessary frights.
My fright aversion is most clearly exhibited through a childhood fear of rollercoasters, a long-held trauma rooted in a general disdain for that tug in my stomach when I’m launched from the summit of a big drop.
That treacherous feeling can be mimicked by throwing your body off a 12-foot diving board for the first time, telling a crush that you like them and waiting for a response, or the first shudder of turbulence on an airplane.
These experiences are all defined by a general prospect of facing the unknown and trusting that when they're over you’ll come out on the other side a braver, more courageous person.
For me, being forced to ride any given nightmarish coaster feels close to what I would describe as near implosion. My heart races, beating at a pace that threatens to crack my chest open and split me in half. My breath quickens and for a moment I forget how to breathe. I feel a bit of dizzy lightheadedness as I glance at the big sign near the entryway warning of “big drops, sudden stops, and darkness.” And the warning signs about dangers for people with heart issues make me hypothesize about whether the ride could kill me.
In the most non-dramatic way, every part of my being threatens to collapse in on itself and vanish. And that sometimes feels like a more welcoming possibility than enjoying the dips and dives of a roller coaster’s track.
When I was little (and maybe not so little), I would tell whoever I was visiting an amusement park with that I would wait for them outside of the ride. For minutes, if I was lucky, and hours, if I was experiencing an average Orlando theme park day, I sat planted on a hot cement bench under clusters of artificial-looking plants and palm trees wondering why I denied myself the experience of trying.
With the joyous screams and hollers echoing above me, I thought about whether that same joy and exploration of my fear could’ve been mine if I had given myself the opportunity.
facing avoidance tendencies
For most of my life, my opt-out decision-making process was not solely reserved for roller coasters. In sixth grade, my class took a trip to Boundless Adventures High Ropes Adventure Park for a day of exploring the outdoors and ropes courses. The trip served as a celebration of my class’ official transition into middle school and concluded with a ride on an 11-year-old-friendly zip line over a large expanse of partially dying grass.
When it was my turn, I climbed the 30-foot wood stand from which each of my classmates had taken their zip line leap, looked our course instructor in the eye, and said “I can’t do it. I’m scared.”
The thing was, I was not scared. I felt no shortness of breath, no quickening heartbeat, no possibility of combustion. It was just that, in the grand scheme of my life decisions, part of my subconscious thought “Girlboss! If you do this, you can no longer say you’re afraid of fast and scary things!”
And how could I, a growing and changing middle school-bound 11-year-old, abandon a characteristic that had (for nearly a decade) protected me from creaky rides at the state fair, intimidating slides at the water park, and group trips to Six Flags?
To embrace such a change of character with short notice could alter my entire life’s trajectory.
So, I didn’t do it. I carefully guided my hands and feet down the ladder back down to the patchy grass, and I stayed in my little comfort zone box where I sat out during things that had the possibility of scaring me.
Though I made this decision, I longed for the thrill of trying and feeling the wind against my face. Silly as it seems, I still think about how I should’ve just done the zip line. It’s been 12 years.
I find a lot of life experiences work like this if you let them. I listen to my friends talk about jobs they want to apply to, places they’d like to visit, or cities they want to move to. Then I listen to them list all the reasons the shift might not align with the person they have constructed themselves to be. Or, I listen to them list all the things that could go wrong if they try.
Then, they don’t try.
Every once in a while, my lovely friends and I share this soul-crushing experience of embracing avoidance. We share time week-by-week or month-by-month pondering the possibility of our what-ifs. Then we never feel confident enough to leap.
We watch other people try the things we long to attempt. They cheer, shout, and (in our social climate) post about them as well Then, in the worst-case scenario, we talk ourselves into a corner with sentiments of fear and calculations about why we cannot do the same.
This is why, when I took a trip to Florida last week to visit a friend, I chose to confront one of my deepest little fears, roller coasters.
enduring the big drop
It is truly mind-boggling to me how the digital age has shifted the theme park experience.
In 2024, when I go to an unnamed major theme park, I am required to schedule an appointment to get on a new, popular roller coaster, and if I don’t arrive within my timeslot, the employees of said unnamed theme park will NOT allow me to ride.
This means that bravery is something you quite literally sign up for. And if you don’t claim said bravery, your digital footprint will hold it against you forever. It felt a little absurd.
I missed the days of seeing a 95-minute wait time for a ride and telling my parents “Oh, the line is too long, we don’t have to do this one.” But, there is something I liked about the accountability of signing up.
It’s kind of like putting something on a to-do list or scheduling self-care in your day. The theme park masterminds are trying to guarantee that you have access to at least one singular slice of fun during your visit.
The only requirement is for you to step up and take it.
My first scheduled rollercoaster experience was at 9:00 am. I stepped into line bleary-eyed and frightened at what lay ahead.
I tried to regulate my breathing, ushering big breaths in through my nostrils and mouth and trying to seem fascinated by the in-line entertainment splayed across the walls and ceiling. “You are not afraid of this ride,” I told myself in my head.
For nearly an hour, my friend and I waited, ambling through different rooms intended to make you think you had almost made it to the front of the line. With each one, my heart rate spiked.
I was so nervous and I couldn’t shake it. Before the trip, I pondered going on YouTube and searching for a night vision recording of the rides to mentally prepare myself. This was a preparedness tactic I employed before heading to amusement parks when I was younger that usually resulted in more fear, so I chose to embrace surprise and maintain the little gumption I had left to get on in the first place.
Eventually, it was our turn to board. We were in the first car. The heavy lap bar locked over my thighs and waist, and I waited to be sucked into the ominous depths of darkness.
We glided forward into a dimly-lit room flickering with soft strobe lights, and, on a wall to our left a video of a character from the movie that the ride was based on gave fictional context to our coaster experience. It was something about being chased through space by a big metal monster man, time travel, and saving the universe over a soundtrack of ambient celestial music.
I was caught up in my own personal panic reverie when “September” by Earth, Wind and Fire started blasting from the speakers, and we lurched backward traveling up a steep, unseeable hill and subsequently dropped.
I can’t say I remember the details of every twist and turn, but I know I sang along to “September” for the entire ride.
reflections from a newly-minted roller coaster princess
As I dismounted my first rollercoaster of the day, pumping my arms in the air and humming September, I realized two things.
I love that song, it’s going on the playlist of the month!
Many of my roller coaster riding peers were parents and their children, gaggles of 42-inch tall kiddies giddy and astounded at what they had just experienced and ready to ride again. I shared their joy and enthusiasm.
For years, I avoided theme parks and trips to landmarks with frightening rides out of fear that someone would and/or could force me to get on one. I limited my experiences to ensure my comfort, security, and safety all while compromising my capacity to try new things.
Now, one week post-roller coaster conquering, I feel a little more cognizant of the fact that my fear might not have been of rollercoasters at all, but instead of the prospect of being afraid. Worrying about how I would feel if something went wrong, afraid of not enjoying the thing that everyone else seemed to love, or (as mentioned earlier) implosion!
I rode five additional coasters by night’s end, always delighting in the experience of glancing over at my friend and groaning about what we had gotten ourselves into before screaming, shouting and laughing our way through each ride.
My newly claimed semi-fearlessness makes me inclined to question the other areas of my life where I’ve held myself back. I’ve started to ponder more critically about how I can shake my fearful ways and embrace the beauty of a new experience.
I’ve started compiling a list of things that intimidate me. Many of them like learning how to make a beautiful hand spun piece of pottery and traveling to a country I’ve never been to aren’t nearly as scary as the fearsome adventures of a rollercoaster.
But, like a 2024 amusement park ride, all require me to set aside some time in my calendar to take the leap.
