Scared to Jump, But Petrified Not To

Where I Begin

I first became dazzled by depth on a rickety three-story tower.

Ridges of rough-cut timbers notched the soles of my bare feet.

My bathing suit dry from waiting,

drips from strawberry-blonde ringlets rolled down my back.

Breathe.

A forest of cypress and oak circled me and the spring, like wise elders.

Spanish moss dangled from outstretched arms.

They watched as I looked down into turquoise fangs.

A funnel of cliffs 185-feet-deep stared up,

asked me to trust, to come, to dive in.

I was eight years old, scared to jump and petrified not to.

My mortality was my bargaining chip.

A roll of the dice, a leap into the unknown.

To take my last breath is my only birthright.

Sink into wonderment.

It will come, that final inhale, today or in a hundred years.

Death is more alive than that.

I want to touch the submerged stony edge, to grab hold,

pull myself down, inside, underneath, to a space most are too afraid to go.

Dying in the act of living, again and again, this is a life well lived.

My toes wiggle at the edge, tips free, soles still, held by timber,

hair wafting in a breeze, dry from deliberation.

There is power in doubt. I befriend where I stand.

I inhale deep for the last time, and let go.

Head first, tiny fingers reaching, wanting.

And this is where I begin.

What does this poem ask of you?

I wrote this a couple of years ago while going through a transition and reflecting on a pivotal moment. There are times in life when we leap (or are shoved) off a precipice. Even if it’s not obvious at first, that leap divides life into a ‘before’ and an ‘after’. Life after has a different hue; the texture of every experience is new, even if most everything in the world is the same.

When I finally leapt from that tower and plunged into the depths, only to swim to the ladder and run up the steps to jump again, that became one of those moments. I realized all my fears were silly. I was fine, better than fine. But I had ‘wasted’ an entire afternoon. Though it unfolded perfectly.

The experience taught me about courage and bravery, and showed me what it felt like to leap into the unknown and take a risk. Looking back, I’ve relived similar experiences countless times, and I’m so much better off for having been the eight-year-old who ‘wasted’ an afternoon on a tower. The more I understand the truth of who I am, the more I realize nothing is ever wasted.

“Where I Begin” is one of my favorite poems in Perfect Unfolding. Last night, wide awake at 3am, I read it. I wanted to relive the leap and remember what it felt like to “grab hold, pull myself down, inside, underneath, to a space most are too afraid to go.”

On January 19th, I was shoved off a metaphorical tower when Mom took her last breath. These last few weeks my eight-year-old has been alive and well, and feeling everything. I’ve spent time alone, visited friends, had friends call me out of the blue, and received many texts and emails (thank you to all of you who have written. I’ve read every one of your well wishes).

These past several days I’ve been camping with friends off-grid nestled between towering live oaks draped with Spanish moss under clear blue skies. Several times sitting around the fire or at dinner, I’ve thought ‘What am I doing here?’ while listening to conversations that don’t resonate, and feeling strangely disconnected.

On Friday, a friend called. He had no clue I was camping and wanted to share something he’d realized. “Your mom’s passing was a seminal moment. Maybe the reason you feel out of sorts is you’re being drawn inward,” he said. My phone was on speaker, and I listened as I strolled down a grassy hill toward a lake surrounded by more towering oaks. “This shift in perspective is a shock to the separate self. You’re going inward toward love in a way you haven’t experienced before, so everything else is rather trivial. That’s all. Give yourself grace.” 

I shared with him about being uninterested in the conversations around the campfire, and how this all made sense now. It’s not them; it’s where I am in my journey. There’s nothing to do but give myself and everyone grace… always.         

This reminded me of another passage in Perfect Unfolding: “The phrase ‘time heals’ gives time too much credit. Understanding, perspective, and insight heals. Suffering comes when I think I need something “better” in order to be OK. That’s when life feels sticky and stressful. Suffering is my reminder, a symptom of disorder, an invitation to remember and understand the underlying message…”

Talk about grace! It’s as if I wrote these words to my future self. These last couple of weeks I’ve noticed many gifts that arrived years ago, and only now do I realize their significance. Maybe my future self left offerings in the present, or maybe everything unfolding at once, even as I experience time as linear.

All I know is that there is no such thing as wasted time, and love never ends or leaves. Sometimes love just appears to change form.

Consider reading the poem again and wonder what it is asking of you.

Love, 

Kristy

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Living From the Heart of Service:
Bonnie Jarvis is hosting a 3-week online program in February: How far will you go to find the life that’s calling?
Join us for discussions on living a life beyond expectation, beyond fear, beyond the safe and predictable.

90-second trailer for my new book Perfect Unfolding:

Header Photo: Sunrise view from my bedroom window- Pinetta, Florida – February, 8, 2026

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