Overcoming Fears in the French Alps

Last week, I went paragliding in the French Alps.

Now, in general, I am a rule follower. A straight-laced, keep-my-feet-on-the-ground kind of person. But every once in a while, I get swept up in some crazy idea that convinces me I can do brave things. Occasionally, alcohol is involved.

Last Christmas, my family was talking with friends about our upcoming trip to France. There was homemade pizza, Belgian beer, and the kind of conversation that makes every future adventure sound like a great idea. Our friends showed us pictures from their trip to the French Alps, including their paragliding adventure.

Majestic view of the rugged peaks and lush greenery of the French Alps, with patches of snow delicately capping the mountains.

The photos were stunning. The snow-capped mountains, the impossibly blue sky, the tiny villages below—it all looked magical. The colors practically leapt off the iPhone screen. Before I knew it, I had opened my laptop and signed my entire family up to jump off a mountain in Chamonix.

Why does the brain take risks?

The answer is complicated, but dopamine plays a starring role.

Dopamine is often called the "feel-good" neurotransmitter, but that's only part of the story. It's released not only when we experience something pleasurable, but also when we anticipate a reward. Sometimes the possibility of joy can be just as powerful as the joy itself.

To understand this, let's briefly talk about the evolution of the brain.

The most primitive part of the brain, the hindbrain, regulates basic survival functions like heart rate, breathing, and temperature control. Later came the limbic system, which manages emotions, motivation, sexual behavior, and our fight-or-flight response. Finally, humans developed the cerebrum, the part responsible for higher-level thinking, planning, language, and decision-making.

This is admittedly a simplified version of millions of years of evolution.

Neurologists, please don't send me angry emails. But for the sake of my paragliding story, it'll do.

When I saw those photos and listened to my friend's excitement, my reward system lit up. Dopamine flooded my brain and convinced me that paragliding was something I absolutely had to do.

Soaring above majestic mountain peaks, a paraglider gracefully conquers both the sky and inner fears.

I suspect the Belgian beer helped silence the parts of my brain that might have objected.

The problem was that I signed up in December.

As the months passed and the trip grew closer, the more logical part of my brain began staging a full-scale rebellion.

Angry cartoon brain expressing intense emotions, with a backdrop of explosive elements highlighting its feelings of fear and anger. Image created by AI.

"Are you out of your mind?" it shouted.

"You're voluntarily jumping off a mountain. Over the French Alps. What exactly possessed you to think this was a good idea?"

For the next six months, I joked that I might die. Worse, I had signed up my husband and children, so there was a chance we might all die together.

Whenever I thought about paragliding, my heart rate increased. My breathing quickened. My stomach tightened. Why didn't I cancel?

Because every time I considered backing out, I remembered my friend's photos. I remembered her excitement. The dopamine would return, reminding me of the potential reward, and somehow my brain would conclude that the experience was worth the risk.

Ha.

Then the day arrived.

I woke up nauseated.

The morning was beautiful—bright sunshine, crisp mountain air, blue skies stretching forever. I kept repeating the same phrase to myself:

Risk can be rewarding.

And then I heard the echo bellow:

But you could die.

Our tandem guides met us at the base of the mountain and seemed friendly enough. We boarded a gondola and began the climb to the launch point.

I was trying to mentally prepare myself when a group of tourists started screaming about how high we were.

Really? This was not helping.

I attempted to summon some dopamine. Nothing.

My brain was running on fumes.

At the top, we still had to hike to the launch site over uneven, rocky terrain. I quickly found myself trailing behind everyone else, carefully picking my way along the path and occasionally scooting on my backside to avoid falling.

And this was the person who was about to jump off a cliff.

I had assumed there would be a lengthy safety lecture. Instead, the briefing was surprisingly short.

The guide strapped me into the harness and explained my one job.

"When I say go, you run. And you don't stop."

Run?

My mind immediately flashed back to high school cross-country, where I was consistently among the slowest runners on the team.

How fast?

How would I know if it was enough?

If we're tandem, why am I responsible for the hardest part?

I searched my brain for inspirational music.

"Stronger."

"Eye of the Tiger."

"Don't Stop Me Now."

Nothing.

The only song that surfaced was "Hurt" by Johnny Cash.

Not ideal.

I watched my daughter go first. She screamed.

My husband followed. He didn't scream, but I definitely heard a concerning noise.

Then it was my turn.

I started running.

As fast as I could.

The problem was that nobody had warned me about the force of the parachute. While I was attempting to sprint with my middle-aged, distinctly unathletic body, the parachute was pulling me backward.

My instructor was yelling.

"Faster! Faster! Faster!"

I was fighting for my life against what felt like a 500-pound parachute.

Every instinct screamed at me to stop.

Sit down.

Abort mission.

Retire from adventure forever.

But my other child still had to go after me, and I couldn't very well set the example of giving up halfway down a mountain.

So I kept running.

And then something unexpected happened.

The wind came to my rescue.

It filled the parachute, lifted us off the ground, and suddenly we were airborne.

The funny thing is that I didn't immediately realize it.

I continued running.

In the air.

For what felt like a solid minute.

My legs were pumping furiously long after we had left the mountain, as if I were escaping a lion rather than floating over the French Alps.

I'm sure that made for fantastic video footage.

The wind suddenly pushed us to the right and every muscle in my body locked tight.

My fight-or-flight response was operating at full capacity.

I was fighting.

I was flighting.

I was doing both simultaneously.

Pumping my legs.

Death grip.

Then my instructor told me to lean back into the harness and stop running (for God's sake, stop running).

Reluctantly, I did.

With the breathtaking mountains int he background, a mix of thrill and fear paints my face during my paragliding trip.

My fingers remained wrapped around the handles tightly, but I noticed something interesting.

My heart rate began to slow.

Then my breathing settled.

I loosened my grip ever so slightly.

Nothing bad happened.

So I loosened it a little more.

Still okay.

And then I finally looked around.

Really looked.

The trees stretched across the mountainsides below us. Snow-covered peaks rose in every direction. Tiny villages dotted the ground. A river wound through the landscape like a ribbon. A beautiful blue ribbon.

The stress hormones gradually burned away.

And then, somewhere in that moment, I felt it.

A small trickle of dopamine.

Then a little more.

And a little more after that.

Soaring above the breathtaking landscape and experiencing the thrill of conquering my fear.

This, I realized, is why we take risks.

Not because we're reckless.

Not because we're fearless.

But because sometimes there is something extraordinary waiting on the other side of our fear. And if we're lucky, if we keep running long enough, we get to see a view we never would have experienced from the safety of the ground.