look, linger, look again... then leap.

on jumping off bridges

Jump, by Jessica Dunn

I remember the first time I jumped off a bridge.

I was hanging over the water, clinging to the wooden handrail of a footbridge, and staring into the deep, murky depths of the river. The drop wasn't too far — 10 to 15 feet — but as I judged the distance, my heart raced, my mind went blank, and I tightened my grip on the rail. My sister, hanging beside me, was shaking. It was the summer I turned twelve.

As we worked up the courage to jump, a man passed by, older and starting to gray.

"Watch out," he told us. "I'm a surgeon. Every year, we get a few kids who jump and impale themselves on fallen branches in the water. They can be hard to spot."

Then he walked off, his warning delivered.

My sister and I glanced at each other, then back at the water. He was right; we couldn't see more than a few inches under the surface. Our lazy hometown river suddenly seemed sinister, and in our imaginations, each shadowy undercurrent secretly harbored sharp branches that could rip us to shreds.

That settled it. We climbed back over the railing. We didn't jump.

Later on, fully grown but still a kid, my buddy and I were exploring the river on paddle boards and discovered a tall concrete bridge where high schoolers congregated and occasionally leapt, screaming, into the water.

My buddy stayed below to guard the boards as I scrambled up the steep gravel bank to the top. The underside of the bridge was covered in graffiti, and along the top ran a live railroad track that stretched into the distance. Once, I was told, my friends had gotten caught on these tracks as a freight train barreled towards them, blasting its horn. They’d had no choice but to go over the side.

Now I stood in the same spot. A piece of graffiti under my feet read, "jump here!" Three feet away, another warned, "don't jump here!" Leap too close to the shallow banks of the river and you’d smash into the rocky bottom.

I looked over the edge and my head spun. It felt like a mile down. Thoughts of sharp, underwater branches and impaled bodies flashed through my mind. My legs felt unsteady. I sat down.

"What's wrong?" my buddy called out from below. "Just jump!"

But I couldn’t. I wanted to tell him I was scared, that I couldn't move, couldn't think.

It was the same crushing feeling I still get before performing on stage or approaching an attractive stranger. You’re supposed to act without thinking, empty your mind and play by feel. Like John Mayer says regarding songwriting, you need a sort of ‘stupid bravery’.

I wanted to prove my courage. I still do. In La La Land, Mia (played by Emma Stone) recounts the story of her aunt, a stage actress who lived in Paris and 'leapt without looking' into the ice-cold Seine, got sick, but ‘would do it again’. The message is clear: an artist must jump.

But I could never leap without looking. And I sat there at the edge for what felt like forever, staring into the water as kids leapt in around me.

I wanted to back out. But then the other kids would think I was a coward — a fate worse than death.

"Come on," my buddy called again, impatient. "Just do it!"

He pointed his phone camera at me. Fuck. I couldn’t back out now.

So I got to my feet as if sentenced to the gallows, smothered my inner screams, gave myself a running start... and took off over the edge.

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In the video, I half-jump, half-stumble off the bridge and fall straight down like a rock, arms flailing in the air. It almost looks like I'd been pushed.

I hit the cool water and stayed under for an extra moment, my feet scraping the river bottom. When I broke the surface, there were no cheers or raucous applause — my internal struggle had gone completely unnoticed.

My buddy saw me surface and climbed the gravel bank to jump. He did a backflip into the water.

I didn't feel victorious. I watched the other kids whoop and laugh as they threw themselves into the air, leaping as far as they could, and I knew I was not one of them. They jumped for fun. I’d only done it to fit in.

But was there really a difference? After all, Ryan Holiday writes that "there aren't two kinds of courage. There is only one. The kind where you put your ass on the line." So what if I’d been pressured? Courage is courage. If you jump, you jump.

Well, if it’s all the same, then maybe it’s okay to look and linger and wait until you’re ready to leap. The best musicians I know take the time to settle in completely before launching into a song. Maybe courage should not be rushed.

But then I wonder, had I been alone, would I have jumped at all? I might’ve waited forever and never felt ready. Maybe I needed to be pushed out of the nest.

Aristotle considered courage the golden mean between two vices - cowardice and recklessness. Not to cower away from imaginary underwater branches, nor to throw yourself blindly off every bridge. Courage lies somewhere between these two extremes.

Maybe one day, I’ll find the balance.

Today, I went back to that bridge.

I was visiting home for the week and stopped by the river. Sat at the edge of the railroad tracks and looked at the water down below. It doesn’t feel as high up as I remembered so many years ago. Still, at the thought of jumping, a jolt of terror runs through me.

Two paddle boarders - an older couple - pass beneath me, and the woman calls out a greeting. I say hi. She notices my journal and asks if I'm studying for finals.

"No," I say. "Writing a story."

"Beautiful day," she remarks. "Beautiful," I agree. They row away.

I stand up, strip off my shirt and socks, and fold them neatly on top of my shoes. I take everything out of my pockets and leave them too.

I look down into the water. I back off. I step up to the edge again, stare down, back off again. I pace along the length of the railroad. Back and forth. Back and forth.

I attempt to capture the eloquence of my thoughts:

I look down one final time. Something feels different — the voice in my head has changed its tune. It whispers, I am brave. I am brave. Not self-deceit, not affirmation, but involuntary, genuine belief.

And I know I’m ready. I step back, count down from five, then sprint toward the edge of the train tracks, toward the wide open air.

I leap as far as I can.

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👻 updates:

• Back in my childhood home for the week. Pic of my bedroom below. Painted that myself. I’m on a good sleep schedule, working out every day, writing in the mornings, going on walks, reading a ton. Not so much music since my left index finger is still healing from that sprain a few weeks ago.

• Switched out the iPhone for a flip phone. It can only send and receive texts and calls. I guess it could do more but I’ve never hooked it up to 4g or wifi. I hate scrolling. Hate it. Better off without it.

• If you haven’t seen, I’ve relaunched my YouTube channel! This is just the start. Covers and originals and vlogs inbound. Long ways ahead of us. This is just the beginning.

lovely natural colors on the canon sl2