Facing Death Twice: Skydiving, Mental Health, and the Edges No One Sees

I’ve stood at the edge of death before — physically, strapped into a parachute, standing in the open door of a plane thousands of feet above the ground, seconds away from free fall.

You learn to manage fear, to trust your equipment, to trust yourself. But there’s another kind of edge that skydiving doesn’t prepare you for, and it doesn’t involve harnesses or emergency procedures. It’s the mental edge — the moment you wonder whether you can actually keep living at all. That edge is just as real, and often, far more dangerous.

If you’ve read my Freedom Story, you’ll already know that my journey with mental health hasn’t been simple. Skydiving became part of my healing — a space where I could reconnect with life, with movement, with something bigger than the noise in my mind. But no jump, no altitude, no rush of air could ever fully erase what I had been carrying.

Skydiving gave me moments of relief — but not a cure. And that's an important distinction, not just for me, but for anyone drawn to adrenaline sports when life on the ground feels unbearable.

The Psychological Mechanisms Behind Adrenaline Sports

Skydiving, like other extreme sports, taps directly into our sympathetic nervous system. At the point of extreme challenge, your body releases adrenaline, dopamine, norepinephrine, and endorphins — a chemical mix that heightens focus, numbs pain, and triggers feelings of euphoria.

Research (e.g., Levenson, 2014; Woodman & Hardy, 2001) shows that risk-taking behaviors are often linked to attempts at emotional regulation. In other words:

• People under emotional distress sometimes subconsciously seek high-risk activities to manage mood swings.

• Adrenaline sports can create a controlled environment for chaos — where fear becomes predictable, controllable, even enjoyable.

  
  

From personal experience, this matches exactly what skydiving gave me:

• Temporary emotional relief.

• A shift out of depressive cycles.

• The feeling of "mastering" fear when internal fears felt impossible to manage.

  
  

However, studies also reveal a "comedown" period after adrenaline surges.Once dopamine and adrenaline levels drop, the brain can return — sometimes sharply — to its previous emotional baseline.This often leads to:

• Emotional crashes.

• Heightened vulnerability post-activity.

• Increased risk of mental health destabilisation without continuous internal work.

  
  

Skydiving gave me moments of powerful peace.But the science — and my life — proves: you cannot live in a perpetual dopamine rush.If you’re using extreme experiences to escape, not to heal, you eventually hit the ground harder than any landing zone can soften.

Loss Within the Community — The Emotional Reality

Recently, someone I knew in the skydiving community — someone I had spoken with, exchanged smiles and conversations with — took her own life. We weren’t close, but we shared a space and a community that binds people together. She was young and vibrant.

Her death wasn’t just a shock — it was a brutal reminder of how thin the line can be between visible courage and invisible suffering. It forced me to confront something I had been aware of but hadn't fully faced: A large number of people in adrenaline sports are fighting silent battles.

In psychology, this is called "risk compensation". When internal emotional risk feels unbearable, people sometimes overcompensate by seeking external risk they can "control." Skydiving gives a physical outlet for fear — but it doesn’t automatically resolve the internal fears that live off the dropzone.

The Broader Connection Across Adrenaline Sports

This pattern isn’t unique to skydiving.

BASE jumpers, free climbers, big wave surfers, endurance runners, motorcyclists — research across disciplines finds similar trends:

• Higher-than-average rates of mental health struggles.

• Higher exposure to trauma (physical or emotional).

• Using the sport as both medicine and escape.

  
  

A 2018 study in Frontiers in Psychology found that adventure athletes often report histories of depression, anxiety, or traumatic events that preceded their involvement in extreme sports. In many cases, the sport became a therapeutic intervention — but only when paired with conscious psychological work. Otherwise, it remained a temporary coping mechanism, not a solution.

In short:

• Movement can heal.

• Risk can empower.

• But neither movement nor risk will heal what you're unwilling to face internally.

  
  

Healing Is a Daily Edit, Not a Single Leap

Therapists often talk about the 80/20 principle in recovery:

• 20% comes from external support — medication, therapy, professional help.

• 80% is the internal work — building coping skills, maintaining habits, facing yourself honestly.

  
  

Skydiving, surfing, running — they can be parts of that 80%. They can build confidence, focus, emotional resilience. But they can’t replace the deeper work of acknowledging pain, processing trauma, and building mental structures strong enough to survive long after the adrenaline fades.

In my own life, skydiving helped. But real healing only began when I stopped trying to escape my mind — and started trying to understand it.

Final Reflection

Skydiving can show you what living feels like again — but it won’t save you if you’re using it to outrun what’s inside.

If you find yourself chasing highs — whether in the sky, the ocean, the mountains, or the streets — know this:

The pursuit of movement is beautiful.

But true freedom comes from the pursuit of understanding — not just escape.

You don’t have to face the edge alone.

And you don’t have to keep falling to feel alive.

🪂 In memory of the one we lost this week — and in hope for all those still fighting. You are seen. You are needed. You are not alone.

-Beth.