Leaping into the semi-known

Major life change can be like falling from an airplane unexpectedly, trajectory unknown. The wind is disorienting. Movement is limited with nothing solid to push against. In the few seconds of airtime, all thoughts focus on landing safely---and frankly, by this point it's too late to change much. Tucking in limbs might help, or maximizing your landing surface area. Statistically, the best move is to relax and breathe slowly during the most terrifying moments of your life. 

If only "fight or flight" worked literally, and we could instinctively wrest control mid-air a la Arthur Dent. A universe with the absurd, self-reflecting rules of a dream or video game would allow for countless obvious solutions at the last moment. Manipulating reality is not so simple.

The real meta moves here are foresight and inner calm. Form a plan for what to do in case of a "sudden change in cabin pressure." Visualize the scenario, practice your reaction diligently, and your muscle memory will take over during the real-life event. Build a set of tools, both mental and physical, to deal with any eventuality. Implement feedback systems to make your life antifragile. 

On March 22, I lost my job to first-round layoffs at Indeed. My former company was kind enough to provide a financial parachute. And with the recent upheavals in tech and finance, I'd been preparing to take this dive for some time. Still, I was caught off guard by the timing. My descent is under control, but I don't know where I'm going to land.

That's where the inner calm helps. When I'm gliding instead of falling, I can shift modes from anxiety to thoughtfulness. The birds-eye view provides a new perspective on possible destinations. I can take a minute to appreciate the spread of options.

I skydove once. It was a tandem jump; one expert diver was strapped to my back, and another was diving with us to get a video. The experience was exhilarating: air pressure stretching my face, the curvature of the horizon, and the overwhelming sense that nothing lay in the vast but ever-closing distance between me and the grass below. I was a momentary satellite observing its own final approach with a cold calm.

Upon reviewing the footage, my friends said I was "too cool for school." They, like many others, see skydiving as a death-defying, adrenaline-inducing sport, an occasion for screaming, gesticulating, or perhaps passing out. Scary as it may sound, statistics suggest it's relatively safe. The fatality rate is about 1 in 500,000 for tandem jumps. Closer to 1 in 1,000 for injuries, but generally nothing major. 

These facts helped me appreciate the experience fully, without dreading the dire possibilities. Far from negating the thrill, it added a new kind of excitement. A sense of abandon. I controlled no part of the experience; my only obligation was to live it.

I'm approaching this period in my life in a similar way, though it's a solo jump this time. Chute and landing are mine to control. Perhaps abandon would be a poor direction, but wonder is crucial. 

To quote a favorite artist of mine: Perspective pries your once-weighty eyes, and it gives you wings. 

Next time your life is up in the air, I hope you can take a moment to soak in the view.