As I watched my children dash towards the expansive glass doors, their heads tilted skyward in awe of the towering building, an all-too-familiar sense of dread washed over me. My heart raced, and I anxiously wiped my damp palms on my shorts. Despite the hot and humid Chicago summer, a chill crept down my spine.
Though my feet remained firmly planted on solid ground, my anxiety began to escalate. As I carefully glanced up at the pinnacle of the tallest building in America, a wave of nausea hit me. “Thousands of people visit the observation deck every day,” I reassured myself. “You probably won’t die. Probably.”
I tried to muster some courage to match my kids’ enthusiasm, but the idea of ascending to the 103rd floor of Chicago’s iconic Willis Tower—formerly known as the Sears Tower—made me feel queasy. My preference leans toward enjoying the view from solid ground rather than a dizzying height of 1,300 feet.
“Mom! There’s a see-through ledge we can stand on! Can we do that?” they exclaimed, excitement bubbling over. Gulp. Sure?
After purchasing our tickets, I trudged toward the elevators with other eager visitors. As we waited to board the lift that would take me to my own personal hell, I fought the urge to scream that we were leaving. Who in their right mind would willingly step out onto the edge of a skyscraper?
When the elevator doors finally opened and I caught my first glimpse of the breathtaking view, I inhaled sharply, struggling to calm my racing heart. My body tensed, fists clenched, and an overwhelming sense of dread washed over me. Logically, I understood that the 103rd floor was completely secure and that other visitors were reveling in the beauty of Lake Michigan, but my body reacted as if I were in immediate peril.
Unless you’re a bird, no human should be higher than three feet off the ground. And even that’s pushing it.
During our visit, I found myself focused on deep breathing, practicing mindfulness techniques, and praying I wouldn’t plummet to my demise. My muscles remained tense; it seemed that tight glutes were my only form of safety.
While I now have a souvenir picture of myself on the Ledge, the reality is that I backed into the space, knelt down while maintaining eye contact with my daughter, and urgently instructed my son to snap the photo. Smoke and mirrors.
Living with Acrophobia
Living with acrophobia is no laughing matter.
All humans are born with a natural fear of falling—it’s an instinct that keeps us away from dangerous edges. However, for those with acrophobia, the mere thought of being at a height can trigger debilitating panic attacks. This fear extends beyond standing at the Grand Canyon’s edge or the top of the Eiffel Tower; it can also manifest at the thought of climbing ladders, navigating high escalators, or sitting in nosebleed seats at a stadium.
Approximately 7% of the U.S. population, or roughly 22 million people, are affected by acrophobia. While it tends to impact more women than men, it remains one of the most recognized social phobias. Individuals with acrophobia can feel paralyzed by fear even when only a few feet off the ground.
So, to those who find it amusing to mock someone terrified of heights by pretending to fall, kindly stop. Making fun of someone’s legitimate panic only reflects poorly on you.
Common symptoms of acrophobia include shortness of breath, rapid heartbeat, excessive sweating, nausea, and pervasive feelings of dread. During a panic episode, individuals may find it nearly impossible to safely escape a high place.
A Personal Encounter
My latest encounter with acrophobia occurred while hiking with my husband in Utah. The stunning landscapes captivated me, pushing me beyond my comfort zone. I employed deep breathing exercises and acknowledged the physical signals my body sent during moments of fear, which allowed me to manage my anxiety—most of the time.
Until I couldn’t.
On a particularly challenging section of the trail, panic gripped me completely. My body froze, tears filled my eyes, and I struggled to breathe. As the panic escalated into a full-blown anxiety attack, I frantically searched for something to hold on to.
My panic was placing me in real danger of falling off the trail—one that had a 1,000-foot drop-off, no less. My husband, who had gone ahead, noticed my distress and quickly retraced his steps to help me.
Overwhelmed, I began to cry. He carefully stepped onto the trail, took my hand, and grounded me. The warmth of his grip, the comfort of his voice, and his reassuring presence helped lower my anxiety enough to take a few steps toward a wider part of the trail. Each step felt terrifying, and I didn’t breathe easily until we were back on solid ground.
The Exhaustion of Acrophobia
Acrophobia can be utterly exhausting.
Once I regained my composure (meaning I could actually move again), we started the slow journey back down the trail—sans the souvenir selfie this time.
Living with acrophobia sometimes means not reaching the summit of a mountain or climbing a ladder. And that’s perfectly okay. Knowing your limits is essential. After all, once you’ve seen one panoramic view, haven’t you seen them all? If you’re interested in family planning and seeking more information, you can check out this resource on pregnancy options.
In summary, acrophobia is a serious condition that many people navigate daily. Understanding and empathy are crucial for those living with this fear.