He stood stiff on the edge of the cliff. Anxiety scrunched up his little face. Below his feet stood his sister, pleading with him to have courage.
“You can do it! Cameron. It’s easy,” she called up while smiling.
For at least 5 minutes, Cameron stood at the edge of the big kids' playground with his hands fastened to the cold metal pole and his patient sister watching for him to jump.
Around him the children were going down slides, spinning the rotating cylinders, and climbing the stairs. Their lives continued, yet Cameron stood still, paralyzed and contemplating that pole.
A few feet away, I watched my baby nephew for mischief (and also kept an eye on another toddler who earlier decided he should slide down the big kids' pole). I reflected on Cameron’s internal battle and obvious fear of heights. It was holding him back and interfering with his limited playtime.
Despite some of the most loving encouragement I have ever seen. He stood captive on that ledge, peering down. Both my nephews, who were similar in age to Cameron and also on the playground, previously jumped down so quickly that I hardly saw them move. Even a two-year-old confidently approached the pole and was offended that the adults assisted him on the way down. Heights are not my favorite either but at his age, I would have descended that pole to get it over with and maintain my street cred.
It was nearly park closing time and his window of opportunity was almost gone so I slowly approached Cameron to add to the cheers and encouragement of his sister.
“I am here to catch you if you fall,” I shared, with arms extended to him.
His expression shifted, and his feet moved giving the appearance he might jump. I could empathize with his lack of courage because I was squeamish as I approached the high ledge.
When he still didn’t jump despite my presence, another and another person joined in to cheer him on and break his fall if needed. Soon, the whole park was rooting for him. Yet he stood, stood, and stood. At times anxious and otherwise questioning.
His sister was encouraged by the crowd and shouted louder, but it couldn't last forever. Eventually, the crowd started to dwindle growing weary of shouting strategies and support. His sister and I stayed below.
“Sit down on the edge,” I instructed, knowing it would shorten the drop and remove some of the pressure he was facing.
When he sat, my hope for his success was renewed; this was a shift from his stagnation. He could have quit all this time, but he stood there contemplating, not with confidence but still open to courage. Now that he was sitting, I realized he might be coachable.
“Jump down from your seat,” I asked next.
The trepidation returned to his expression. It now seemed that he was nearly in the same position as standing.
“Come on Cameron, don’t be afraid.” His sister sweetly pleaded.
At last, he jumped.
Traffic down that part of the grounds could resume. The rest of us scattered with hardly a cheer left in us after Cameron’s ordeal.
He made the jump. It took some accommodations, but the goal was to come down, and he did. There was a village around him that mostly stayed with him even though it began to appear hopeless.
I wonder what Cameron felt about the situation. Was he as impressed as I was that so many strangers were rooting for his success and even devised strategies to ensure that he felt safe and supported? Did he relish the victory of the jump or get hung up on the fact that he had to sit first?
Cameron’s plight drew my heartstrings from the start. The heights, the fear of falling, and the love of his sister made an impression. Not just because he was in a similar stage as two of my nephews who were not as inhibited by fear.
How many times have I stood alone, facing new heights that I was expected to scale? (My own older sister drags me to amusement park drop towers every year. She never regarded my fear of heights.) The path to medicine held many moments that mangled my stomach far more than those towers ever could, yet I proceeded. I saw how I could’ve been Cameron stuck in one place missing out on the fun life had to offer, if I allowed fear to dictate how I moved.
Love wasn’t enough to get him to jump. Though we were all frustrated at his standing, it was almost admirable that he stood, saying with his stance that he was the only one who would have to live with the consequences of his actions.
That wasn’t, however, the case. His stagnation held up half the playground. There caused congestion on the way to the slides and no one else was able to access the pole. That was part of the reason I decided to help. I knew that if he moved, others would then have the room to move too.
Though it was delayed and from a different position, he jumped. Sometimes it takes more than love and courage to move. It requires a new vantage point from mentors who get it.
It was not one but a combination of factors that helped Cameron to his end, and what I hope is clear to him and others is: that people want to help you succeed, and your success encourages and moves others.
It is okay to be scared and move. Everything and everyone doesn’t need to be in place for you to move. You can find another way. You can make that jump.
If this reflection resonates with you, you may love, A Year of Intentional Living.
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Dr. Joseph curates speaking engagements, individual and group coaching, and inclusive environment consulting—helping individuals (and ultimately organizations) live healthier and more unified lives on purpose.
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Overview of Make That Jump:
Fear is normal but a life led by fear is detrimental to success.
Your success may look different, but it still counts.
Even if success comes after much time, resources, and accommodations celebrate your victory.
Not every opportunity is open indefinitely. Stagnation due to fear can cost you.
People around you want to help you. The right ones will stay to support you.
Your progress is often intertwined with the success of those around you.
Overcoming fears is essential to growth.
