For each one of us there existed a fearless age. A time when we were unworried about physical consequences. When we would swing to the highest point before leaping into the wind-rush of nothingness. 

Mine hit around age twelve and didn’t stop until sixteen. By then there’d been opportunity enough for me to earn scars that would never quite heal. Plenty of time for me to learn how hard the ground really is when you let go of the swing.

I had a love of horseback riding, not an ideal fascination for someone in their daredevil phase. Living on a steep hillside, my parents never took to the idea of having horses of our own (I wonder why?), but I had friends in school who owned horses and stretches of untouched land. I remember riding on a cold April morning, early when the light is still pink and dew seeps through your boots. That was the day I finally learned to let go of the saddle horn while galloping. And when the horse hit the adrenaline-high point between running and sprinting, I relaxed. I thought I had arrived – hills and fields flying behind me. Nothing but the sound of the horse’s breath against frost, hooves against earth. Catch me in the Kentucky Derby next year. 

But in my Sea Biscuit moment, somehow my feet came out of the stirrups just as the horse spooked. We took off into a patch of pine trees and I struggled to find places for my feet as branches slapped and cut into my face. I yanked on those reins and yelled “Whoa!” with all the authoritativeness of a field mouse.

I didn’t register pain at first, just the disorienting thud of a comet hitting earth. My face hit the ground first, busting my lower lip and bruising my jaw. My body next, twisting the nerves in my neck in a way that would hurt for weeks. I pushed myself onto my knees and watched my horse disappear, a chill settling over my body as I realized how close I’d danced to long-term injury.  

Thankfully the horse didn’t abandon me completely, and my muddy jeans and I pulled ourselves back on. The ride back to the house was cold and full of dread, and I dismounted for the final time with muscles jiggling with the consistency of jello cake. 

Needless to say, my parents were about as pleased with me as they were that time I took a metal sled down our front yard in the middle of summer. About as pleased (if I’d ever bothered telling them) as that time I went down our neighbor’s laundry chute. 

I’m a different person now, and a smarter one, I hope. I don’t have much interest in laundry chutes or good climbing trees. I no longer recklessly swing on vines in the woods or backflip off the trampoline. But at times, I miss the part of me that didn’t overthink, the part of me that saw a challenge and conquered without worrying if I’d scrape my knee. There was a time when I assumed fearlessness with the ease of a rain jacket. Always there in a pinch. 

In so many ways, my sense of adventure was left behind in that field. Not because the fall hurt, although it definitely did, but simply because of my age. Within just a few months, my sister got married and I was smearing makeup on my face and stalking down the aisle in high heels. After a while, it was no longer appropriate to tackle the obnoxious boy during flag football in P.E. 

There aren’t too many thrills in my grownup life. The last time I cut myself was with a potato peeler. I still have plenty of bruises but they’re from accidentally bumping into the coffee table. And while it’s important to be wise, to wear a seatbelt, to not experiment with a metal spoon in the microwave (still sorry about that one, Mom), our lack of interest in courage can keep us from important things. 

Sometimes being adventurous can be as simple as striking up a conversation with a lonely neighbor or telling the lady on the elevator that you love her shoes. I don’t want to live my life in a self-described, courage-less box because then I miss opportunities to connect with other people. To make someone laugh when they have a case of the Mondays.  

Adulthood is full of too many other pairs of eyes. We care too much if the stranger across the restaurant is questioning the way we hold chopsticks. Our sense of the carefree has dropped so low that we’re embarrassed to ask each other for directions. Afraid to approach the store clerk to see if they moved the lemon juice again.

Sometimes I ask myself what I’m so scared of. It’s been too long since I stretched myself. Way too long since I let go of the saddle horn and just relaxed. I’m not asking myself to hang glide over the Swiss Alps, but I can try new foods, talk to new people, learn from a different perspective. Put on ice skates and finally master the back crossover. Why not ask the DJ to play our favorite song?

We were designed to explore and created to live in community with each other. From crescent-shaped moons to snow flurries on windowpanes, God filled this whole world with things for us to enjoy. How much we’ll miss if we’re not willing to open the gifts we’re given. 

There are many secrets to childhood, and one of them is to forget that eyes are watching. To be unbothered by opinions or eyebrow twitches or snickers. To embrace adventure with openness and new experiences with joy. We do it for ourselves, so that we can experience the rich nuances of life, but we also do it for others. Because others want to feel included, acknowledged, seen, and we can’t give that gift if we’re too worried about what they think.

It takes courage to love other people. It’s not always easy to invite your coworker or quirky uncle over for game night, but in the same way that I struggle to follow the steps to the Electric Slide, I still need to get out there and try. Maybe that should be my New Year’s Resolution. Get back on the horse, as it were.