I took a deep breath, fastened the dirty helmet and stepped onto the ladder. It was shaky, being held against the tree only by a classmate underneath it. It was the second day at my new school Rock Point and apparently a ropes course would make us united. As I stepped off the latter, onto a small metal grip connected to the side of a tree, I felt my stomach drop. I was really doing this. It seemed a lot higher then it looked from the ground. Climbing, I stared at the narrow tree branches ahead, blocking the blue sky. I unhooked my safety line and immediately hooked into the next and final support cord. This was it. I stood on the uneven wooden platform, looking down. I never even thought about turning back, it wasn’t an option. Although I don’t exactly have a fear of heights, the idea of jumping off and free falling wasn’t the most comfortable activity. No one was going to force me off the platform; I was going to decide myself. Fear had controlled my life. It lingered between relationships. Anytime someone would get close, it would dive in and separate me. I didn’t want to get hurt. I didn’t feel frozen. I knew I had to this. In reality, it was so easy. I just had to jump. Only one simple movement that had been mastered when I was two years old. For some reason, I felt like this was symbolic. If I pushed myself to do this, I could do anything. And so I did, feeling the air gush past me as I fell. Just as I was expecting to meet the ground face first, the rope caught me and prevented me from crashing to the ground. I found out later that the activity was called “The Leap of Faith”