One Plank at a Time
The first step was enough to make me question what I had gotten myself into.
Ahead of me stretched 450 feet of narrow wooden planks suspended high above the Capilano River in Vancouver, British Columbia. Towering evergreens surrounded the canyon, their branches reaching toward the sky, while the river wound through the forest far below. From where I stood at the entrance to the Capilano Suspension Bridge, the other side looked like a very long way away.
I had recently traveled to Vancouver at the beginning of an Alaskan adventure, and one of the places we wanted to experience was Capilano Suspension Bridge Park. I knew there would be a suspension bridge. Obviously. It's right there in the name. But knowing you're going to walk across one and actually placing your foot on that first wooden plank are two very different things.
As soon as I stepped onto the bridge, I felt it move beneath me.
Oh boy.
It was definitely going to be one of those experiences where I needed to trust myself and keep moving forward.
There were two lines of people crossing, one going in each direction, which meant the bridge was constantly responding to everyone's movement. With every step, it shifted and swayed beneath our feet. Some people held tightly to the railings, carefully watching each step they took. Others seemed completely comfortable with the movement, casually strolling across as if they were walking down a sidewalk.
I fell somewhere in between. At first, I kept my eyes focused straight ahead. I knew the bridge was safe, but apparently my brain wanted to entertain a few other possibilities. Then I made the mistake of looking down. Holy cow. The river and forest floor were a long way below me.
Suddenly those wooden planks beneath my feet seemed a little narrower and the bridge felt a little less substantial. I knew logically that thousands and thousands of people had safely crossed this bridge before me, yet there was still that tiny voice wondering, "Are we absolutely sure about this?"
So I stopped looking all the way to the other side. Instead, I looked at the plank in front of me. One step. Then another. And another. Before I knew it, I had made it across. Of course, there was one little detail. If I wanted to get back to where I started, eventually I would have to cross the exact same bridge again.
Isn't that just like life? We sometimes arrive at the beginning of something new and immediately want to know exactly how we're going to get to the other side. We want to know how the dream will unfold, whether the business will succeed, how the relationship will turn out, when the healing will happen, or what our next chapter will look like.
We stand at the beginning staring 450 feet ahead, trying to figure out every single step before we've even taken the first one. No wonder we feel overwhelmed. What if we didn't need to know? What if all we needed to see was the next plank?
I think about how many times in my own life I've wanted guarantees before moving forward. I wanted to know I was making the right decision. I wanted reassurance that everything would work out. I wanted to somehow peek around the corner and see where the path was taking me.
Life rarely gives us that luxury. Instead, it asks us to trust. Trust ourselves. Trust what we know today. Trust the quiet nudge in our hearts. And then take one more step.
There will be times when the ground beneath us feels steady and times when everything seems to sway. There will be people moving in the opposite direction, perhaps making us question whether we're even headed the right way. There will be moments when we look down and suddenly become very aware of everything that could go wrong.
That's usually when fear gets loud.
What if I fail?
What if I make the wrong decision?
What if I'm not ready?
What if I can't do this?
Maybe courage isn't about making those questions disappear. Maybe courage is hearing them and choosing to take another step anyway.
We also don't have to race across the bridge. There is no prize for reaching the other side first. Sometimes we need to hold onto the railing for a little while. Sometimes we need to pause and catch our breath. Sometimes we need encouragement from someone walking beside us.
And sometimes we need to look around.
That may have been one of the greatest lessons from crossing Capilano. If I had spent the entire time focused on getting to the other side, I would have missed the beauty surrounding me. The enormous evergreens. The canyon. The river. The incredible feeling of standing in the middle of something I don't experience every day.
How often do we do that with life? We're so focused on where we're going that we forget to notice where we are. We tell ourselves we'll celebrate when we reach the goal, when the difficult season ends, when the business takes off, when we feel completely healed, or when we finally have all the answers.
But life is happening on the bridge too. There is beauty in becoming. There is strength being built in the uncertainty. There is something to celebrate every time we choose not to turn around simply because the path feels uncomfortable.
Eventually, I reached the other side, explored the park, and later made my way back across the bridge. Was it still swaying? Absolutely. Was it still 230 feet above the river? You bet. But something had changed.
I had already proven to myself that I could do it.
Maybe that's how confidence is built. Not by knowing we will never be afraid, but by collecting evidence that we can move through fear.
Whatever bridge you are standing in front of today, you don't need to have the entire journey figured out. You don't need to know exactly what is waiting on the other side. Take a breath. Trust yourself. Reach for the railing if you need it, accept the hand of someone walking beside you, and give yourself permission to move at your own pace.
Then simply look down at what's right in front of you. Because dreams, changes, new chapters, healing, and even suspension bridges are rarely crossed in one giant leap. They're crossed one plank at a time.
xo, Sheryl
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