By Michelle Hurst 
We missed our big vacations this summer, but I did manage a short trip to Galveston with my daughter. Our hotel was near the Pleasure Pier. Thankfully, that’s never really been our thing. My kids aren’t big on adrenaline, and a fear of heights feels hardwired into my DNA.
But Tess saw the bright lights and asked if we could ride the Ferris wheel. She’s at an age where she still believes I’m braver than I feel. I didn’t have my wallet, but I told her we could walk over and check—if they took Apple Pay, we’d do it.
I knew it wasn’t a smart financial decision. I also knew I’d be scared. But I’d been on Ferris wheels before. I’d be fine. Right? (They let toddlers on, after all.)
They took my payment and told us the pier would close in 30 minutes. The Ferris wheel sat at the very end, hanging out over the water. As we approached, a sign warned of a fall risk—no seat belts. Suddenly, those charming open-air circles felt far less whimsical.
There were small children ahead of us—tiny, fearless humans who seemed completely unfazed. None of them looked like they were mentally preparing for disaster. My heart, meanwhile, was hammering. I wanted so badly to stay on solid ground. I also didn’t want to miss this moment with my daughter.
That’s the complicated thing about fear. It keeps us safe, but it can also keep us from showing up when our kids ask us to.
Logically, I knew I wouldn’t die on this Ferris wheel. My nervous system did not get that memo.
As the attendant led us to our seat, I asked, “How long is the ride?”
She gave me a look.
“I’m terrified,” I admitted. “I just need to know how long I’ll be up there.”
She gave me a rough estimate. I started a timer on my phone.
I asked Tess to talk to me—to distract me—but every time the wheel stopped to let more people on, I panicked. I gripped the center pole like it might save me. I took deep breaths. I kept saying, “I’m having fun,” out loud, hoping repetition might trick my brain into believing it.
It did not.
I mostly kept my eyes closed. Occasionally, I looked out over the water. It really was beautiful—just not quite beautiful enough to quiet the fear.
Eventually, the wheel stopped spinning. I stepped out.
My heart calmed almost immediately, though my hands kept shaking for a few minutes longer. Oddly, it felt good. Not because I’d done something brave, but because it was over.
It wasn’t about the thrill.
It was about the relief.
There had been a finish line.
Nine minutes.
Five times around.
Done.
Later, I realized what mattered most wasn’t that I faced my fear. It was that Tess was watching.
She didn’t see confidence or composure. She saw a mom who was honest about being scared—and who did the hard thing anyway. She saw that fear doesn’t mean stop. Sometimes it means breathe. Sometimes it means ask questions. Sometimes it means hold on a little tighter and let someone sit beside you.
Right now, I’m walking through a hard season, making decisions I never wanted to make. I don’t know how long it will last. There’s no countdown, no clear finish line. But I’m still showing up—for my kids, for my life, even when my hands are shaking.
If my daughter learns anything from that day on the Ferris wheel, I hope it’s this: bravery doesn’t always look bold. Sometimes it looks like a quiet yes, a deep breath, and staying on the ride until it’s time to step off.
And sometimes, that’s more than enough.
by Mary Ann Blair 
by Kimberly Yavorski 
by Nicole Merritt 
