We'll cross that bridge

On the despair of "getting there"

I’m not sure I have ever been so scared in my life. It was a raw, physical fear that lived in my bones and overrode my commonsense. I knew that the bridge was safe, that thousands (tens of thousands? more?) had crossed it without incident, and that the powers that be (whoever was in charge of the Cloudraker Skybridge at the peak of Whistler Mountain in British Columbia) would never allow people to step foot on it if the engineering was anything less than 100% trustworthy and sound.

Still. I was one-third of the way across and so consumed by terror I knew that if I took another step I would need to be carried off by emergency services. I stumbled back, legs shaking so hard I could barely walk, dizzy and disoriented. Defeated.

The view from Cloudraker Skybridge, July 2025

For the past three weeks—save a one-day pit-stop at home—I’ve been traveling. First to NYC, then to BC for my niece’s wedding and some family time. In many ways it has been refreshing to step out of my ordinary routine, see different parts of the continent, and connect with friends old and new. But it has also been incredibly unnerving, a jarring, surreal experience that I am still processing. While I was gone:

• Minnesota state representative Melissa Hortman and her husband were assassinated and Minnesota state senator John Hoffman and his wife were shot and severely injured in a politically motivated act of terrorism.

• Trump announced Alligator Alcatraz, a detention facility in the everglades that some are comparing to a concentration camp and others are selling merch for in a “deranged new low for the GOP.”

• Texas flooding claimed the lives of more than 100 people, including 27 young girls and counselors from Camp Mystic.

• The so-called Big, Beautiful Bill was passed, slashing “about $1 trillion from Medicaid — the largest cut in the program’s history — and at least 17 million Americans are projected to lose health coverage or insurance subsidies that make coverage affordable.”

• ICE continued to terrorize and kidnap people off the streets, detain them in horrific conditions, and deport them to war zones—an extraordinarily cruel and inhumane “immigration crackdown” that even Joe Rogan has called “insane.”

There are simply no words.

A part of me wants to stop right here. Just hit “publish” and walk away. Because what can I possibly say to mitigate the suffering? To offer even a moment of comfort in the midst of such never ending horrors?

My soul aches.

Jane Austen wrote: “I am half agony, half hope.”

It’s one of the trust things I know right now. But clinging to hope—tight-fisted and desperate—isn’t just difficult these days, it’s becoming (at least for me) nearly impossible. I feel like I did on the skybridge: overwhelmed and unmoored. Terrified. As if I may tip right over the edge.

That afternoon at Whistler, my son was the only family member who wanted to brave the bridge to the Raven’s Eye viewing platform on the other side. “Look where we are,” he said, waving around at the mountaintop, the mist, the view. I heard: This is a singular moment, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. And I just couldn’t let it pass us by. “I’ll go with you,” I told him, even though it was the last thing I wanted to do. Even though I was scared to death.

There are three things that got me across that bridge.

1. Eyes on the prize. I didn’t look down. Not once. During my first attempt, I watched my feet. And let me tell you, a suspension bridge strung 7,160 feet above Whistler Village and completely exposed to the elements does not feel the least bit stable. It sways and bucks in the wind, juddering with each step and pixelating the view of the cliffs below the steel mesh in nauseating ways. On my second pass, I kept my eyes locked on the arch on the far side of the bridge. It didn’t move. It was solid and welcoming, framing a view that I very much wanted to see and that kept me moving at least somewhat steadily forward.

   #

   It strikes me that in this broader cultural moment I can’t “look down.” Yes, it is vitally important to heed historians, experts, and analysts when they warn us of the dangers of creeping authoritarianism and how atrocities like “Alligator Alcatraz” are desensitizing us to the very real barbarity of dehumanizing our neighbors. We need to know. But if I “look down,” if I allow myself to fear that everything is already lost, I’m useless. I’ve effectively removed myself from the fight for decency, compassion, humanity, and neighbor love. I refuse to do that. So I choose to keep my gaze up, the desired end in sight: a restoration of the dignity and inherent worth of every single person in this country I love (and the whole world!). We belong to each other. We just have to remind ourselves of that inerrant truth.

2. Stay close. When we embarked on round two, I told my son that I would have to hang on to him. And I did: the back of his jacket was bunched in one fist while my other hand strangled the railing. When I started to hyperventilate (I’m not afraid of heights, friends—this was a very scary bridge), he talked to me, reminding me of his presence and pulling me back to reality. He pointed out the beauty around us: a cloud that was so close we could pass our hand through the vapor, a turquoise lake sparkling below, the ozone and cold stone scent in the air. His presence was relief and distraction. I wasn’t alone.

   #

   We are not alone, friends. We have each other. In fact, I think we have way more people surrounding us, agreeing with us, and longing for a return to togetherness and warm welcome than we realize. Find your people and be intentional with them. Encourage one another. Look for counterweights (a term my friend Shannan Martin uses to describe the little joys that balance out all the hard) and delight in them together. We can’t do this alone. And we can’t do it at all if we give up on sharing the beauty around us.

3. Help whoever you can along the way. Halfway across the skybridge, we came up behind a woman who was alone. “I’m so sorry,” she said when we drew close. “I’m going really slow, but I don’t think I can make it!” Her arms were spread wide, hands clinging to both railings, and her knees were shaking as much as her voice. “You’ve got this!” my son and I told her. “Don’t look down. We’re right here. We’ll get there together.” And we did. We all made it to the other side. Not surprisingly, helping her made me forget (at least a little) my own fear.

   #

   Sharon McMahon, “America’s Government Teacher,” recently posted: “Do for one person what you wish you could do for everyone.” It seems like such a small thing, but like the old parable about saving starfish on a beach, it makes a difference to that one—and, arguably, everyone who loves that person, too, as well as every person they come into contact with. It’s a glorious ripple effect. I can’t march into Alligator Alcatraz and free the people imprisoned without due process there. But I can give my neighbor kids popsicles, stock my little free library with diverse books, call my senators and representatives, and try to love those around me well. Who’s your “one?”

   

   Cloudraker Skybridge, Whistler BC, July 2025

We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.

I have never liked that idiom. Honestly, it gives me a sense of doom. “When we get there” is somewhere in the middle distance, a time that we know is coming and that will definitely carry some unwanted consequences. There’s a reason we’re putting off dealing with “it,” whatever it is: we don’t want to and we hope that it’ll just magically resolve itself in the midst of our inaction. It rarely does. Often, when we reach that bridge, the problem has compounded, becoming something bigger and more threatening that we imagined at the outset.

My friends, we’re there. We may feel overwhelmed and unmoored. Terrified. I am. But we have no choice but to cross this bridge, like it or not. I’m choosing to believe that we’ll make it to the other side. Together.

Thanks for reading, xoxo - Nicole

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