Just Before the Jump: My Inner Dialogue on a Tandem Skydive

The door opens. In front of me: nothing.

Well, not quite nothing. There is air, there are clouds, and there are about 4,000 metres between me and a patch of ground I suddenly find extremely likeable from up here. Somewhere down below, life is getting on with its usual business. People are stuck in traffic, writing emails and perhaps debating who is taking the minutes at the next meeting.

And me? I am supposed to jump out of a perfectly functioning plane.

Not because it is on fire. Voluntarily.

Anyone who has read the first part about skydiving, stage fright and nerves knows the experiment: What happens inside the head of a woman who regularly takes the stage when she sits down at the aircraft door? Can you overcome fear simply by jumping? And is a tandem skydive really more frightening than giving a talk to people who are allowed to ask follow-up questions afterwards?

The short answer: I was not afraid. I was nervous. They are not the same thing.

Talk Some Sense to Yourself! The Inner Dialogue.

In Greek antiquity, great stories begin with an oracle. Mine does too, in a way: I asked zflys what might be fun for the next piece of content. Well, a skydive. After all, plenty of clients describe skydiving as rather like taking the stage.

And here, too, I was glad that I could listen to my inner monologue without having to jump alone. An experience like this really bonds people. Of course, everyone still makes the jump for themselves. But the conversations beforehand were helpful. And entertaining.

• Nobody was allowed to say the “C-word” (= crash).
• We had to wait while the plane was refuelled: we were both more affectionate than usual.
• We had cameras there to capture the whole thing.

So much for the external dialogue with other people.

My inner dialogue revolved mainly around two questions—or observations: Would I be as nervous as I am before taking the stage? And how wonderfully liberating was it not to have to prepare, practise or research anything this time?

No slides. No punchline that has to land. No figures that could tumble out of my memory at the crucial moment. My only content brief was essentially this: listen, breathe and do not pretend I know better than the professional I was strapped to.

For people who like to be prepared, that is surprisingly liberating.

Curious Gear & Smart Tools

Then came the gear. We all got funny jumpsuits and funny caps. If anyone thinks heroism begins with a cape billowing dramatically in the wind: no. Sometimes it begins with headgear that makes every last scrap of vanity leave the building voluntarily. It was magnificent. Add a one-piece suit that made me look like a plumber. Or Katy Perry on her space flight.

My tandem instructor Roman usually deals with jump partners who are considerably more nervous. I was not relaxed in the sense of “I couldn’t care less”. Quite the opposite: I was wide awake, excited and full of anticipation. My body knew something extraordinary was about to happen. But my mind did not want to get away. It wanted to look.

This is exactly where language matters. If we immediately call every surge of physical activation “fear”, we may be telling ourselves the wrong story. A racing pulse can mean run. But it can also mean: pay attention, this matters. Anticipation sometimes wears the same outfit as nervousness, only with a different destination.

Ascending Olympus, Only with a Safety Harness

As we climbed, the houses grew smaller, the roads narrower and the people invisible. Then there were the clouds. The clouds of Olympus, seen from an altitude of 4,000 metres.

From above, people looked tiny and quiet. Perhaps, I thought, this is roughly how the Olympian gods must see us: lots of scurrying about, lots of important calendar appointments, a great many opinions. And from this distance, everything is suddenly astonishingly quiet.

This new perspective was not only beautiful. It was restorative. Down below, we like to take our performances, mistakes and inner dramas so seriously that you would think Zeus himself was keeping the minutes. Up here, you see: the world is big. You are small. And that is not an insult but a relief.

Then we approached the moment this was all about.

The First Ten Seconds: No Room for Stray Thoughts

The first ten seconds after the jump are the memory that shines most brightly for me. The entire freefall was incredible. But in those first ten seconds, everything unnecessary drops out of your head.

No “What will other people think?”. No “Should I have prepared better?”. No inner committee hurriedly assessing posture, impact and possible follow-up questions.

There is only the moment.

And air. A great deal of air.

I enjoyed everything: the ascent, those first ten seconds of falling, the whole freefall, the parachute flight and the landing. Truly everything. The freefall was incredible, the view beautiful. I would do it again in a heartbeat.

Of course, other people pay attention when you skydive. People watch. There may be a camera. But the task itself is compellingly clear: survive and follow instructions. Nobody counts your ums. Nobody awards points for posture. And after landing, there is no unpredictable question from the third row that begins, “I don’t really have a question, more of a comment.”

Perhaps that is why I sweat more before taking the stage.

Overcoming Fear—or Naming Nervousness Correctly?

After the jump, people kept asking whether I had been afraid. No. Nervous? Yes. Because I was excited and looking forward to it.

That sounds like a small linguistic correction, but it makes an enormous difference. Overcoming fear does not always mean wrestling down a panicked inner resistance. Sometimes it means listening more closely: Do I genuinely want to run away, or is my body simply telling me that I am leaving my comfort zone?

There is already a zflys blog post about our inner dialogue: “Inner Dialogue: What Science Says”.

The tandem skydive turned this into a field test without PowerPoint. Thoughts are not merely background music. They influence whether we interpret arousal as danger, anticipation or a challenge.

With stage fright and performance anxiety, it is similar, except that the feedback remains more ambiguous. A successful landing is fairly clear: we are back on the ground. A successful performance? Perhaps everyone applauds; perhaps someone looks serious because they are concentrating; perhaps the tech was poor; perhaps you brood over one sentence that nobody else even noticed.

Breathing Is Not Esoteric Decoration

As advice, breathing often sounds suspiciously banal. Or it gets shoved into the esoteric corner, somewhere between incense sticks and the invitation to embrace your inner unicorn. But breathing is thoroughly practical: in skydiving just as much as on stage.

When we get nervous, our breathing tends to become shallow or frantic. Breathing consciously brings our attention back to the body and the present moment. It does not solve every problem. But it stops us from adding homemade physical chaos to an already exciting situation.

On the tandem skydive, I did not have to shine. I had to stay present and follow the instructions of a trained professional. Surprisingly often, the same principle applies on stage: breathe, listen, stay in the moment. Except that nobody is attached behind you with a parachute and reliably knows which way to go. Unless you train with me beforehand.

Five Tips for Leaving Your Comfort Zone

1. Name Precisely What You Feel

Do not just ask yourself, “Am I afraid?” Distinguish between fear, nervousness, anticipation, uncertainty and physical activation. This precision does not make the feeling smaller, but it stops your inner dialogue from immediately declaring a crisis-management operation.

2. Make the Next Step Concrete

“I have to overcome my fear” is enormous and not very helpful. “I will sign up”, “I will walk onto the stage” or “I will listen to the safety briefing now” is manageable. Hero stories rarely consist of one monumental sentence; they are made up of many concrete next steps.

3. Breathe Before You Judge Yourself

Take a few calm, conscious breaths and, above all, gently lengthen the exhale without forcing anything. Only then assess how nervous you really are. With severe or unusual physical symptoms, it goes without saying: do not try to breathe them away; seek professional advice.

4. Trust Professionals Where Expertise Matters

A tandem skydive is not the place for spontaneous self-actualisation after an online tutorial. Listen to the trained tandem instructors and follow their directions. The same principle helps elsewhere: good preparation also means knowing when someone else has more experience. Wink, wink.

5. Gather Experiences, Not Just Arguments

You cannot think a new perspective fully into existence. At some point, you have to do something: speak, click, travel, perform or jump. To write stories, you have to experience something. Otherwise life tastes bland, and eventually even every dialogue sounds the same. In my opinion.

There Is Risk on the Sofa Too

Skydiving has risks. I will not downplay them. Sitting at home has risks too, however: the world keeps moving faster, you run out of stories, and eventually you answer every decision with a Viennese “Ah, we’ll see.”

This is not an invitation to jump thoughtlessly out of planes. It is an invitation to examine your need for safety now and then. Is it protecting you in a useful way right now? Or is it merely guarding a comfort zone that became too small long ago?

Damn! We Are Still Alive!

More than that: for a few minutes, life was very loud, very clear and, at the same time, wonderfully quiet in my head.

You do not have to start with a skydive to overcome fear or reframe nervousness. Perhaps your jump is a difficult conversation. A first time on stage. An idea you finally say out loud even though nobody has politely asked for it yet.

My tandem skydive showed me this: I can be very nervous without being afraid. I can have no need to control anything and still remain present. And I can look at the world from 4,000 metres up and realise that much of what looks enormous down below does not even make a sound from above.

No hero was ever born in comfort. Certainly not on Olympus.

Note: This post describes my personal experience. It is neither safety advice nor medical or psychological advice. On a tandem skydive, the safety briefing and specific instructions always come from trained professionals and must be followed.