As my children dashed toward the vast glass entrance, I felt a familiar wave of anxiety wash over me. They tilted their heads back, their eyes sparkling with excitement as they stared up at the towering skyscraper. My heart raced, and I nervously wiped my clammy palms on my shorts. The sweltering heat and humidity of Chicago clung to my skin, but a chill ran down my spine.
Despite being firmly grounded on the sidewalk, my panic escalated with every passing moment. As I reluctantly directed my gaze upwards, my throat tightened, and I took a deep breath, trying to quell the rising bile.
“Thousands of visitors ascend to the top every day,” I reassured myself. “You’re not likely to meet your end. Probably.”
I summoned the courage to match my children’s enthusiasm, but the mere thought of riding the elevator to the 103rd floor of Chicago’s Willis Tower—once known as the Sears Tower—made my stomach churn. As someone grappling with acrophobia, the fear of heights, I prefer the views from solid ground to ones from over a thousand feet in the air. But my children were relentless in their quest for adventure.
“Mom! There’s a clear ledge up there! Can we do that?” they exclaimed.
Gulp. Sure?
After purchasing our tickets, I trudged toward the elevators with the other visitors. As we awaited our turn to board the elevator that would take me to my personal nightmare, I wrestled with the urge to flee. What sane individual would step onto the edge of a building soaring 1,300 feet high?
When the doors opened, and I caught sight of the view, I inhaled sharply, attempting to steady myself. My muscles tensed, my fists clenched, and an overwhelming sense of dread washed over me. Logically, I knew the 103rd floor was safe, and others were reveling in the beauty of Lake Michigan, but my body reacted as if I were in grave danger.
Unless you’re a bird, there’s no need for any human to be more than three feet off the ground, thank you very much. And even that feels excessive.
Throughout our visit, I focused on deep breathing, practicing mindfulness, and praying that I wouldn’t plummet to my death. My glutes stayed tight because, after all, safety comes with strong muscles.
I now possess a souvenir photo of myself on the Ledge, yet the reality is that I backed into the space, knelt down while maintaining eye contact with my daughter, and urged my son to snap the picture immediately. Illusions and smoke.
Living with acrophobia is no laughing matter. While every human is born with a basic fear of falling, those with acrophobia can experience debilitating panic attacks merely at the thought of being elevated. This fear isn’t limited to heights like the Grand Canyon or the Eiffel Tower; it also encompasses climbing ladders, navigating high escalators, or even sitting in nosebleed seats at a stadium.
Acrophobia affects around 7% of the U.S. population, equating to roughly 22 million individuals. Although it tends to impact women more than men, it remains one of the most widely recognized social phobias. People with acrophobia can find themselves paralyzed with fear even just a few feet off the ground.
For those who find it amusing to mock someone afraid of heights by pretending to fall, please stop. Making fun of someone’s genuine panic only reflects poorly on you.
Common symptoms of acrophobia include shortness of breath, rapid heart rate, excessive sweating, nausea, and profound feelings of dread. When fear takes hold, it can become so overwhelming that individuals struggle to safely remove themselves from high places.
My most recent encounter with acrophobia occurred while hiking with my husband in Utah. Captivated by the breathtaking scenery, I pushed myself along the trails, utilizing deep breathing techniques and recognizing my fear triggers. I managed to navigate my anxiety for a while.
Until I couldn’t.
On a particularly daunting section of the trail, panic gripped me entirely. My body froze, tears filled my eyes, my breathing became erratic, and I trembled as the anxiety escalated into a full-blown attack. Frantically, I searched for something to hold onto as the sheer drop of 1,000 feet loomed beside me.
My husband, a few yards ahead, turned back and rushed to my side. I broke down in tears, and he carefully stepped onto the trail, reaching for my hand to provide grounding. The comfort of his touch, the sound of his voice, and his reassuring presence helped lower my anxiety enough for me to take a few hesitant steps toward a wider path. Each step felt like a battle, and I didn’t breathe freely until we were back on solid ground.
Living with acrophobia is draining. When I finally regained my composure, we began the slow journey back down the trail, devoid of a souvenir selfie this time.
Acrophobia sometimes means not reaching the summit of a mountain or a ladder, and that’s perfectly okay. Recognizing your limits is important. After all, once you’ve seen one scenic view, haven’t you seen them all?
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Summary
Acrophobia, the fear of heights, can lead to debilitating panic attacks and anxiety at even modest elevations. While many people experience a basic fear of falling, those with acrophobia often find themselves paralyzed by their fears, affecting daily activities and experiences. Recognizing one’s limits is essential, as is understanding that it’s perfectly acceptable to avoid situations that trigger anxiety.