Lessons From a Flying Elephant

I have so much to learn. I’ve never pretended otherwise. But I didn’t expect one of my best teachers to be six years old. My six-year-old. Even stranger, today’s classroom was Disneyland.

Let me back up.

I’ve never been a fan of amusement parks. As a kid, I dreaded my summer camp’s annual trip to Rye Playland. It was always hot, humid, and loud. And I always felt like the only one afraid of the rides. While everyone else lined up for the Dragon Coaster, I volunteered to stay back and hold bags. I painted on a smile and pretended I was happy to watch their joy, but inside, I was filled with shame. I hated the way my stomach dropped on even the gentlest rides. I hated that I couldn’t just “be brave.” Mostly, I hated myself for being so full of fear.

Fast forward a few decades: I still avoid the scariest rides. But this trip, I decided to push myself. My middle son is a thrill-seeker, and over the course of the trip, I joined him for a few (terrifying-to-me) roller coasters. Nothing wild, but enough to make my palms sweat. I wanted to be part of his joy, and honestly, it felt good to show him I could do it. That fear didn’t have to win.

But when it came to the truly scary rides, I passed. And instead, I stuck with my youngest.

Turns out, he’s just like me. Poor guy.

Every ride I suggested, even the most benign ones, made his face twist in terror. But his fear wasn’t simple. Alongside it was this visible desperate, determined desire to push through. He wanted to have fun, and those scary rides did look fun. And oh, did I recognize that ache: the longing to join in, to not be the odd one out, to make the fear disappear.

On day one, my husband and I pointed out the Flying Dumbo ride to our little guy. You know, the ride where you sit in a cartoon elephant with your parent and float in a slow circle for 75 seconds. I'm fairly certain it's designed for toddlers. Our six-year-old took one look at it, grabbed my arm, and whispered, “I don’t want to.” So we skipped it.

But he kept mentioning it. Nothing dramatic, just little comments here and there. It stuck with him.

He had a good time anyway. He watched the shows, ate the treats, hugged the characters. But that ride stayed in his mind.

Today, our final day, just before we were about to leave the park, he turned to me and said, “I’ll ride Dumbo if you want me to.”

I told him he didn’t have to do it for me, but I’d walk with him to the ride and he could decide for himself. He was excited. Skipped the whole way there.

We got in line. The forty-minute line. For 75 seconds of motion.

That’s forty minutes for my six-year-old to sit in his fear.

Within the first minute, he looked up at me and said,
“I wish I were brave. If I were brave, I wouldn’t be afraid.”

And that’s when it clicked. Something I’ve heard before, maybe even said myself, but only fully understood in that moment.

“No,” I told him. “You can’t be brave without fear. Bravery only exists because of fear.”

He blinked up at me, confused.

“Bravery means you’re scared,” I said. “And you feel it. And you keep going anyway. That’s the only way you can be brave.”

He nodded. Thought about it. Then said he wanted to stay in line. And he did.

For about 30 more seconds.

Then the tears came again. “I’m still afraid, Mommy.”

“I know,” I told him. “But I’m going to help you be brave. I’ll stay right beside you, and we’ll hold the fear together. I’ll hold your hand the whole ride.”

I said that again. And again. And again. Every few minutes for the next forty minutes.

And then, finally, we got on.

We climbed into our blue elephant. His hand in mine. His face full of terror and courage all at once.

The ride began.

And as we floated up, he turned to me—still gripping tight—and said,
“This is the best day ever.”