Facing goliath

(originally drafted 10/2024)

There are moments when we realize that the world hasn't changed nearly as much as we have.

One of those moments found me standing in line for a roller coaster.

It was a cool weekday afternoon in late spring, my favorite kind of day to visit Six Flags Great America. My daughter had finally reached the height requirement to ride every attraction in the park, and I was almost as excited as she was. In the weeks leading up to opening day, I found myself reminiscing about my own childhood visits. I unearthed old photographs of friends and me standing in line for rides like the Triple Play and the Yankee Clipper, and I couldn't wait to tell her stories of my teenage years.

Back then, roller coasters were the destination. We planned our entire day around them, saving the gentler rides for later. My friends and I always wanted the back row—the place where the train seemed to pull just a little harder over every hill. My favorites were the Shockwave and the Raging Bull, especially that unforgettable first drop.

I spoke about those rides with confidence, almost pride. I couldn't wait to experience them again through my daughter's eyes.

We met up with some of her friends, and before long I found myself volunteering as one of the designated parents to ride alongside the kids. It felt natural. After all, I was the veteran.

We began with a family ride called The Lobster.

I expected a gentle wave of nostalgia.

Instead, I was caught completely off guard.

The ride seemed faster than I remembered. Higher. Wilder. As it spun us through the air, I instinctively grabbed my sunglasses, wondering if I should have tucked them away. My stomach dropped. For one bewildering moment, I wondered if something was wrong with the ride itself.

Then I looked over at my daughter.

She was laughing.

Cheering.

Throwing her hands into the air alongside her friends.

Meanwhile, I found myself shouting, "Hold on!"

Of course, that only made them laugh harder.

It was in that moment that I realized something profound.

The rides hadn't changed.

I had.

Somewhere between adolescence and motherhood, my relationship with risk had quietly transformed. My body processed the sensations differently. My mind anticipated danger where it once anticipated delight. Without consciously deciding to, I had become someone who scanned for safety before adventure.

By the time we reached the Raging Bull, I noticed my confidence had been replaced with questions.

Was the restraint tight enough?

Was there a weight limit?

What if something happened?

More than anything, I found myself wondering whether I could protect my daughter if the unimaginable occurred.

As the train climbed the familiar lift hill, my daughter looked out over the park in amazement.

"We're so close to the clouds," she said. "The cars look so tiny."

I smiled.

Then I did something I had never done before on a roller coaster.

I prayed.

Part of me knew we would be fine.

Another part simply wanted the reassurance that comes from placing your fears in hands larger than your own.

The ride was exhilarating.

Familiar.

Different.

So was I.

There was only one coaster I had never ridden.

Goliath.

Even from a distance it looked intimidating. You could hear the screams long before you saw the tracks. Naturally, I did what many anxious people do: I researched it. How fast did it go? How steep was the first drop? How did it compare to every other coaster in the park?

The more I learned, the more uncertain I became.

Could I handle it now?

Would I panic?

Had I simply become someone who didn't ride roller coasters anymore?

As I stood there wrestling with those questions, another realization surfaced.

Riding roller coasters had never just been about the rides.

It was part of how I understood myself.

Not because I needed to prove I wasn't afraid, but because I wanted to remain someone who was willing to meet fear with curiosity rather than retreat.

I also knew my daughter was watching.

Not to see whether I was fearless.

But to see what I would do with my fear.

So we climbed aboard.

And we rode Goliath.

It was every bit as intense as I imagined.

When we stepped off the platform, I didn't feel invincible.

I felt grateful.

Not because I had conquered fear, but because I had discovered something unexpected.

The younger version of me rode roller coasters because she rarely thought about what could go wrong.

The woman I am today rode anyway.

Not in spite of the years that had changed me, but because of them.

Perhaps courage doesn't disappear as we grow older.

Perhaps it simply grows up with us.

A Gentle Offering

May we honor the ways life has changed us without mistaking them for weakness. And when fear quietly introduces itself, may we remember that courage isn't found in having no fear at all, but in choosing, with wisdom and love, to move forward anyway.