Two days ago, I went skydiving.

Skydiving is one of those things that sounds great on paper, but makes no sense when you actually think about it. Millions of years of evolutionary biology scream against jumping out of planes. If you fell from 5,000 feet, do you know how much momentum you would hit the ground at? A lot. And trusting some ropes and nylon to save your life? No thanks.

Nonetheless, it has been on my bucket list for a while, so I decided to take my partner skydiving for her birthday. It turned out to be a lifechanging experience.

It was a warm and sunny morning, and we got in the helicopter two hours later than expected. There were fourteen of us: two pilots, six passengers, and six instructors strapped in the room. When we took off from the ground, it didn’t feel too strange. I could still see cars, people and buildings from the window. Just a little smaller than my apartment view.

But soon, things started getting serious. Buildings, then roads, then residential blocks began turning into specks. The CBD buildings, which completely dominate my apartment view, could barely be made out. I started noticing random plains of grass and wheat from my height, which you only see way out of town. I began to squirm nervously.

And this was only at 5,000 feet. We kept going. 10,000 feet. 11,000 feet. 12,000 feet. I just wanted it to stop. Looking outside and knowing there was only one way down made me sick. 13,000 feet. 14,000 feet. How I regretted my actions in that moment. I looked down and couldn’t make out anything but colours. Just blue: the Pacific ocean, and bits of brown, grey and green: Earth. Finally, we reached 15,000 feet: over 4.5km in the air. A red light turned to a yellow light and the door flew open. Vicious, cold air assaulted the helicopter and only then did I realise it was happening. We were going to jump off from a ridiculously stupid height.

We were probably going to die.

I was one of the last passengers to leave, which is terrible because you see other people getting pushed off in front of you. You hear their screams, you see their panicked faces and watch them tumble back to Earth. It happens so fast, as well: one moment they’re in front of you, the next they’re gone. It could be the last time you ever see them.

And then it was my turn. My instructor, a big Aussie dude, shoved me to the door, where I could see how far up we were. I literally could not see anything but a land mass and the Pacific ocean. The instructor yelled “legs out!” and before I knew it, I was in the air.

Will Smith once said, “God placed the best things in life on the other side of fear.” I never really agreed with that. Naps were great, and weren’t scary. Nandos was delicious, and easy to order from. Books were delightful, and always a pleasure.

But I think I’ve changed my mind.

The fear, doubt and disbelief you feel going up the helicopter all vanishes when you’re in freefall. You feel a complete loss of weight, the wind pressing up against your skin, and the sun bearing down on you. You see Earth gradually getting bigger and bigger, and you notice how the horizon dips closer and closer down to the ground. You notice parts of your city that you had never seen before: random parks, ovals and land masses. You see how small everything looks and realise how grand the world really is.

It is bliss.

When you land, you are a changed person. You have defied millions of years of evolutionary biology and lived to tell the tale. When you were flying through the air, you realised that all your problems pale in comparison to the beauty that is life. You feel grateful at being alive, of seeing your loved ones again, and once the nausea wears off, you’ll enjoy food like never before.

What lies on the other side of fear? I don’t know. Probably many things. But there are some beautiful opportunities waiting out there, locked behind a payment of fear, which will open up to you if you have the courage to face them.