Fight the Fear

The Ferris wheel does not look like a monster from the ground. From the ground, it looks almost wholesome. Lights. Music. A slow circle against the sky. It sits there pretending to be gentle, as if height becomes less terrifying when you decorate it with bulbs and call it a ride.

Everyone has their own fear architecture. Mine apparently involves narrow crossings, no guardrails, sudden drop-offs, and the horrifying realization that I am responsible for staying calm while the situation offers no immediate exit. I have had those dreams: driving over impossible bridges, lanes too tight, edges too close, the whole world falling away on both sides. You do not need a dream dictionary and a couch to figure out what that one is trying to say. It is not subtle.

So when the Ferris wheel lifted and the ground started making itself unavailable, something old and vivid woke up in my chest and immediately shot through all my extremities. Not nervousness. Not dislike. Not the polite adult version where you say, "I am not really a heights person," while smiling through a minor discomfort.

Fear. Immediate, physical, unreasonable and entirely real. The kind that does not care what the engineering report says. The kind that does not care that other families are laughing. The kind that does not care that children routinely ride this thing while holding cotton candy and making zero spiritual preparations for death.

The guardrails may be real. Fear does not grade them that way. To fear, every guardrail is fake until proven otherwise. Every bolt is decorative. Every breeze is a warning. Every small shift in weight becomes a legal argument with gravity. The rational mind can say, "This ride has operated all night." The animal mind responds, "That is exactly the sort of confidence people have before a documentary."

And then there are the kids. The twins were not conducting a personal confrontation with mortality. They were running around, excited, alive in the moment, doing what children do when they are inside a giant glowing circle above the boardwalk. They were not thinking about structural integrity, symbolic bridges, or the ancient panic of being suspended where there should be floor.

They were just being kids which meant I could not simply become the fear. That is the part nobody tells you about bravery. Sometimes bravery does not look like courage. Sometimes it looks like sitting very still, gripping the edge of the seat, and muttering the same phrase under your breath for six minutes.

Fight the fear. Fight the fear. Not beat the fear, that would be too clean. Not conquer the fear. That sounds like a poster in a gym where nobody has ever met an actual nervous system. Not overcome the fear, as if fear is a small puddle you can step over if your attitude is correct.

Fight it.

Stay in the seat. Keep your voice level. Do not make your terror the largest thing in the basket. Let the children have the ride. Let the wheel complete its slow, judicial circle. Do not teach them that fear must always be obeyed. Do not teach them that the body gets to vote last and rule first.

This is where slow-moving terror becomes its own category. Fast fear is almost easier. A jump scare, a near miss, a sudden sound. The body floods, reacts, resolves. But slow fear has time to decorate the room. Slow fear pulls up a chair. Slow fear explains itself. Slow fear says, "Since we are up here anyway, let me show you several possible endings." The Ferris wheel is especially cruel because it gives fear a view. You can see the boardwalk. You can see the lights. You can see the ocean if the angle is right. You can also see the exact distance between your body and the place your body would prefer to be. The ride is beautiful, which is rude. Panic should not come with scenic value.

But it does. So you sit there. And you breathe. You irrationally clutch on to the handle like that will prevent the 100ft plummet to the unforgiving earth. You shrink the job down to the next ten seconds. You do not need to be fearless for the whole ride. You only need to be present for this part of the circle. Then the next. Then the next.

There is a strange dignity in that. The world is full of people quietly surviving moments that look ordinary from the outside. A parent in a hospital room. A driver on a bridge. A person opening an email they already know will change the day. Someone waiting for test results. Someone making a phone call they have avoided for weeks. Someone sitting on a Ferris wheel because two small children are watching and this is not the moment to turn fear into the family weather.

Nobody claps for that kind of courage because nobody can see it. From the ground, it just looks like a Ferris wheel. From inside the seat, it can feel like negotiating with the edge of the world. Eventually, the ride came down. They always do, which is important to remember and impossible to believe while suspended. The door opened. The platform returned. The ground reintroduced itself like an old friend.

The twins had their ride. I had my six-minute private hell, and maybe that is enough. Not every fear needs to become a victory story. Some fears simply get survived in a way that protects the people nearby. Some fears do not leave because you ask them to. Some fears have to be sat with, argued with, breathed through, and denied the right to drive.

That is not glamorous but it is useful. Fight the fear.