No Risk No Reward

A subject that has been on my mind a lot lately is that of taking risks. As you probably know, more often than not, I am a huge endorser of risk-taking, and will readily adopt the role of cheerleader for anyone in my life who goes out on a limb, leaves their comfort zone, and/or tests new waters.

Along this theme, the best boss I ever had is a wonderfully intelligent person who possesses a real joie de vivre. A few years ago, when I announced my imminent departure from my secure job and comfortable life on Cape Cod to move to South Carolina, Mark proclaimed with enthusiasm: “Great news! No risk, no reward.”

I love this expression and I use it all the time—on both myself and virtually everyone in my life.

But then I was thinking that there are many sides to this Rubik’s cube of a situation, and a valuable lesson emerged as I recalled a personal experience regarding the issue of risk.

My first semester of college was spent abroad. I lived in London with 30 other students, all of whom were also college freshpeople who would begin classes as usual in the states in January. At one point during this period, a group of six girls took a trip to Wales to go on this sort of outdoor adventure trip. We went rock-climbing, cliff jumping, and coasteering (rock climbing where you are in the water for half the time and out for the other half). We were also meant to go surfing, but the weather turned very stormy and awful before that activity came to fruition.

Missing the surfing was quite a bummer because you know of my former hope and dream of being a super cool surfer girl. That might have been my missed opportunity right there. Oh well, spilled milk.

The trip was wonderful in the sense that it was a great bonding experience with a group of women, three of whom would remain some of my closest friends—in college and beyond. Other perks to this adventure included the fact that we drank lots of really delicious hot chocolate (not to discredit the country I live in and love, but it is my experience that Americans are simply incapable of making quality hot chocolate) and saw some of the beautiful Welsh country-side.

But in spite of those advantages, it was actually a truly miserable experience.

The major snafu was that I learned that I am petrified of heights while in Wales.

If you would like to go back and refer to the list of activities included on this trip, you might come to the astute realization that being afraid of heights would render the trip utterly miserable. You might also ask with a mixture of wonder and confusion: “What was this girl thinking when signing up for this trip?”

It makes about as much sense as a diabetic signing up for a weekend of pastry classes.

One might have thought I would have realized this whole “fear of heights” issue earlier in my life, but I actually was not afraid of heights when I was younger. I grew into my fear of heights the way some people grow into their noses. Or how people develop food allergies in adulthood. I am sure you have heard about someone who was eating peanut butter sandwiches with relish and glee for years on end, and then zam! one day they contract cauliflower ear, and their throat closes up because they take a bite of Pad Thai at an Asian Fusion restaurant.

No?

Well it happens. I saw a 20/20 on it once.

And it happened in my life that I developed a fear of heights that was crippling and horrifying, and it only came to the surface when I was dangling from a rope held in place on a precarious embankment during a thunderstorm as I tried, for the first time in my life, to rock climb.

How inconvenient.

To add insult to the injury I was positive I was about to incur, waves were crashing below me on jagged rocks and I had zippo trust in Bev, our instructor, who seemed inappropriately nervous and distracted.

I recall vividly that in that moment I was cold, sad, and paralyzed with fear. Not to sound too self-pitying or anything, but I was hanging over the side of a cliff, so a little self-indulgence seems warranted.

The really unfathomable thing to me was that the five other girls sailed through the activities with gusto and verve. Even my one good friend, who confided that she too was terrified, quickly changed her tune as her fear turned to exhilaration and determination.

When it came time to jump off the cliff—different cliff, mind you, no visible jagged rocks (though I was certain they were there, lurking under the surface). Everyone lined up and boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, hopped off with shrieks of delight in varying decibels.

I managed to creep to the edge of the cliff, mentally preparing myself to jump, stopped short, and just about barfed.

I have a stomach of steel, so this was unusual.

Bev, wretched being that she was in my admittedly biased mind, eventually convinced me to jump off with her, holding her hand. In retrospect, this gesture, though presumably kind, makes little sense to me. If I were to hold someone’s hand for comfort, it would have made more sense to hold the hand of one of my friends as opposed to this virtual stranger whose capabilities as an outdoor instructor were suspect at best.

And frankly, I felt in that moment a little too coerced. As if it would make a crucial difference to her if I did not jump (maybe she was nervous I would demand a refund?). I also felt to not jump would be to detract from the enjoyment of my new friends, and I did not want to do that as I had just met these people and was fairly reliant on them at the time for any semblance of a social life.

So I held Bev’s hand and I jumped.

Basically, I was afraid to refuse to go. I jumped because I was more afraid of being the one singled out non-jumper than I was of the turbulent feeling in my stomach and the vision in my mind of my crumpled body pierced in two by an unseen jagged rock below.

After I surfaced, I was physically intact—much to my surprise. Mentally, however, I was more messed up than before. I had hoped that the jump would inspire a feeling of wanting to immediately jump again, to have a newfound addiction for the rush of adrenaline and freedom of hurling myself through the air. Everyone else seemed to feel that way.

What was wrong with me? What was wrong with me that these thrilling activities from which my new friends derived so much pleasure and excitement, made me want to hurl? Why was I so very different?

I am not sure why, but I was, and I am still. But the major problem was not that I was different from the other five members of my peer group, but that I lacked the courage to stand by my truth.

Here is my point: most of the time, I think risks are worth taking. Most of the time, the risk, whatever it may be, will reap huge rewards—mental, physical, emotional rewards. And often they will only be able to be appreciated in retrospect.

And I do talk a lot of about leaping and the net will appear and I tout my “no risk, no reward” philosophy all the time. And I believe in all of it.

But what I believe in above all else is that your own sense of intuition trumps it all. Following your own instincts is the most important thing you can do. Some things you just KNOW are wrong, though that feeling may make little or no sense to anyone else. But if you know it, then have to have the courage of your convictions. It is just as courageous to say no as it is to say yes if what you are doing is following your own truth.

So here is the thing: I wish I had not jumped, and I wish I had not suspended myself down a sheer rocky cliff. True, these were risky moves, and therefore logic may indicate that I deserve a hearty: "Good for you, you stuck your neck out there!"

But it would have been more of a risk to go against the grain of the group, to squelch the desire to fit in, and to merely say: "That is not for me, sorry." The real risk would have been honoring my own internal voice in spite of the external circumstances. The real risk, ironically, would have been to stay on terra firma.

Interesting when you think about it. It is all about perspective, isn't it?