Do a parachute jump

Skydiving is the ultimate test of courage — the moment between the door and the sky where every instinct screams to hold back. Choosing to jump anyway is not recklessness; it is a deliberate act of growth.

November 9th, 2008 — the day I finally confronted a fear that had followed me since childhood.

I've always been afraid of heights. Not just a little uneasy—really afraid. The kind that makes your stomach drop just looking over a balcony. And yet, for as long as I can remember, I was fascinated by the ultimate contradiction: jumping out of an airplane. Free fall. Total loss of control. It felt like the purest, most terrifying challenge imaginable.

So when I heard that my wife Alexandra and her friend Petra had made a pact—if they graduated, they would celebrate with a skydive—I did something completely irrational.

I said yes.

At the time, it was a joke. Something to laugh about. A wild idea thrown around at dinner tables and gatherings. Plenty of teasing, plenty of bravado. But as the months passed and 2008 rolled around, the tone slowly shifted. The jokes became plans. The plans became reality.

And then suddenly, it was November.

We met early in the morning in Zell am See. The air was cold, crisp—almost too clear, like the world itself was holding its breath. We signed in for the jump and were assigned our tandem masters. From that moment on, there was no turning back.

The waiting was the worst part.

Hour after hour passed. Morning turned into afternoon, afternoon into evening. With every minute, my nerves tightened. I must have visited the bathroom a dozen times. My body was in full rebellion, my mind racing between excitement and sheer panic.

By the time dusk approached, it was finally our turn.

And yes—one last desperate run to the toilet.

Then it happened fast. We were ushered into the plane, packed tightly together like cargo—"battery hens" came to mind. No space, no escape. Just the low hum of the engine and the growing realization: this is it.

I was in a trance.

The plane climbed higher and higher until the world below turned into a distant patchwork. Then, the rear door opened.

Cold air exploded into the cabin.

My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. I glanced at my pulse monitor—150 beats per minute.

This wasn't fear anymore. This was overload.

We shuffled toward the edge. The void was right there. Endless. Silent.

3… 2… 1…

And then—

Nothing.

The jump.

A plunge into absolute emptiness.

For a brief moment, my mind went blank. Then suddenly—I was there. Fully conscious. Fully alive. We were already in free fall, racing toward the earth at unimaginable speed.

And somehow… it wasn't terror.

It was freedom.

An invisible cushion of air carried me, held me. The noise, the rush, the sheer intensity—it all merged into something indescribable. Pure, raw exhilaration.

And just as quickly—

Snap.

The parachute opened.

One more look to the pulse monitor - 170 beats per minute.

Silence.

We slowed, drifting gently through the evening sky. The chaos was gone, replaced by calm. The world below came back into focus as we glided toward the landing zone.

Touchdown.

Solid ground.

Alive.

My first words?

"Bist du deppert!"

Over and over again.

Apparently, as my tandem master later told me, I had been shouting that exact phrase nonstop during the last minutes of the jump.

"Bist du deppert! Bist du deppert!"

And honestly… it was the only thing that fit.

I had done it.

Against every instinct, every fear.

Unbelievable.