My mother taught me to keep my eyes open when I jump. Here’s why

Sign up for CNN’s Stress, But Less newsletter. Our six-part mindfulness guide will inform and inspire you to reduce stress while learning how to harness it.

I watched the earth shrink below me. Sprawling fields became the size of my thumbnail. Lakes evaporated into teardrops. Millions of acres of Oregon’s Willamette Valley turned into a postcard I could stick on my fridge.

It all looked very far away — impossibly far away, given that my 5-foot-6-inch self was supposed to journey all the way back to the ground with only the help of gravity, a parachute, and a stoked jumping buddy named Toshi.

Toshi patted my knee and pointed to the altimeter on his wrist. We’d reached an altitude of 8,000 feet and were just a few minutes away from our high point.

“It’s time to get ready!” he shouted, his voice fighting the roaring engine of the plane.

I didn’t know if I’d ever be ready.

Just an hour and a half ago, I had still been in bed, trapped beneath my big blue comforter and the grief I woke up with, with no intention of going skydiving today — or any other day. The idea of voluntarily jumping out of a plane and free-falling thousands of feet seemed as safe and appealing as driving blindfolded down the interstate in a car with no brakes.

I sucked in a shaky inhale. My heart pounded into my chest like a jackhammer against cement. My body rattled with the metal of the ascending plane. I flicked my gaze to the small door on the side of the aircraft.

I hadn’t figured out how I was going to get myself out of that door. But I was pretty sure it would involve squeezing my eyes shut, disassociating from my body and pretending Toshi was nudging me into an ice cream shop instead of the bright blue yonder.

Toshi tapped me again.

“Don’t forget to keep your eyes open,” he yelled.

“Crap,” I whispered to myself. The only thing scarier than jumping out of a moving plane was being fully conscious for it. But I knew Toshi was doing his job and guiding me in the right direction.

I looked at the door again and thought about why I was there.

That day should have been my mother’s 70^th birthday. But she passed away from papillary serous uterine cancer when she was 66, just 13 months after her diagnosis.

Milestone birthdays were a big deal for my mother Andrea. She marked her 50th year by running her first marathon. When she turned 60, she learned how to swim so she could do her first triathlon.

And on the day of her 60^th birthday, she celebrated by jumping out of a plane.

I had started the day looking at photos from that birthday, scrolling through my phone while still in bed. Each one cut a little deeper into my heart. They perfectly captured the essence of my mother.

There was a photo of her looking out the window of the plane, her blue eyes bright with joy. Her smile stretched wide with giddy courage. I could practically feel her humming with excitement through my phone screen.

I know she was afraid to jump out of the plane that day, but she wanted to make that jump and met her fear with joy and determination. Qualities that defined how she lived through everything — raising my brother and me, marathons, triathlons, cancer. When she lost her hair during chemotherapy, she road-tripped to a small diner in Maine for its Bald Thursday special. There is a photo of her cackling in front of her discounted toast and hash browns that will live on my fridge forever.

As I looked at the photos, I wondered what she would do for this milestone birthday. I knew it would be something bold, brave and wholehearted. Thinking about it — and how I’d never know — shattered me with longing.

I rolled over and jumped out of bed. I couldn’t bear to stay there another second with the swells of grief that were crashing into me.

I clipped a leash to my dog Dilly and headed out the door for a run. I never know what to do with the big grief days, and I always dread them — the birthdays, the death anniversaries, the days on the calendar that mark another year or another holiday lost.

I’ve found that time heals in some ways. But it also unleashes more heartbreak as each passing year or big life event just makes me feel further away from my mom. Which is the last place I want to be.

As I looked through the photos, I wanted to transport myself into the plane with her and ask her everything about how she was feeling. And why she was there. I wanted to hear her voice, high with excitement, answering every question I regret never asking her.

I started running around the corner from my house and only made it a few blocks before I was hit with an unstoppable thought.

“I should’ve gone skydiving today.”

It came out of nowhere. An idea I’d never considered for a single second of my life. But once it was in my head, I couldn’t shake it. I just saw my mom, beaming her way up to 10,000 feet.

I ran another block and stopped again. I pulled out my phone and googled: “skydiving Oregon.”

A listing popped up for a skydiving place just outside Eugene.

I clicked on it, as I thought about how pointless it was to look. There was no way you could decide you wanted to go skydiving at noon on a Saturday and make it happen.

The first thing I saw was blue text on the bottom corner of the website. “Call for same day appointments.”

Which is how I ended up crammed into the back of a plane, just 90 minutes after I peeled myself out of bed.

“You can always bail,” my brother reminded me, when I called him on my way to the tarmac. “Even in the plane, you can decide you don’t want to do it.”

But I hadn’t turned around yet. Something had kept me going, through the 20-minute drive. Through the DVD warning that I was about to do something that might kill me. Through sliding my limbs into a harness. Through ascending thousands of feet in a plane the size of an SUV.

I just kept seeing my mom, staring out the plane window, dimples carved into her cheeks. And I had been surprised that it wasn’t just fear I was feeling. As we took off, my smile was as wide as my mom’s.

Toshi gestured for me to swivel around so he could start clipping my body to his. The next steps happened in a blink. The metallic click of carabiners, the tightening of straps, the “OK” symbol of Toshi’s fingers in my face, his eyes checking for consent to move toward the door. It was my last chance to bail.

The door slid open, the plane was moving 100 miles per hour, and a torrent of wind rushed in.

Every nerve ending in my body flashed red, warning me that humans are not meant to plunge out of a moving plane. But I didn’t want to bail. On this big grief day, when I didn’t know how to cope with feeling too far away from my mom, I’d found the answer.

I wanted to live the day like she would — in a bold, brave, wholehearted way. That’s how I feel closest to my mom.

I knew that could have meant staying in my bed, looking at photos of her and facing the waves of grief head-on, letting the longing for my mom wash over me. To feel the deepest cuts of grief was its own bold, brave, wholehearted act.

But today, that meant jumping out of a plane.

I nodded back at Toshi. We slid to the edge of the plane, and I pushed my legs out the door. I had to fight to steady them against the wind. I released the sides of the plane and wrapped myself in a tight hug. My body was dangling on the precipice of a 10,000-foot vertical drop.

There was nothing between me and the ground, nearly 2 miles below. My heart had never beat so fast. I thought about my 60-year-old mother doing the same and was flooded with even more awe for her. I couldn’t ask her about it, but I could feel this. Through my overwhelming fear, I smiled again.

“Ready?” Toshi yelled.

“Ready!” I shouted back, even if it was little bit of a lie.

And then, we were falling. My body careened 120 miles per hour through the abyss.

Some people say that skydiving helps them leave everything behind. It’s a release. They’re left with nothing but sky.

But, for me, it wasn’t a release. It was an embrace. I carried every emotion with me as I let go of the plane — fear, joy, grief, longing, love. And I held onto my mom for every second.

My eyes were wide open, and I could see I was exactly where I wanted to be.

Emily Halnon is a runner and writer based in Eugene, Oregon. Her essays have appeared in The Guardian, The Washington Post, Salon and Runner’s World, and her memoir, “To the Gorge,” is set to publish in 2024.

For more CNN news and newsletters create an account at CNN.com