The real reason flying is terrifying, the blackberries and the hen party to beat them all.

I had a thought while I was walking this week. One of those weird ‘I think I ‘ve hear this before in about 100 different versions but I didn’t get it’ thoughts. What if, it isn’t falling that is the most terrifying thing that can happen. What if it’s flying. Now. I used to be scared of actual flying, it’s a whole thing that I talk about in the book. This week I noticed it in training. It appears in a moment I see repeated dozens of times a week, in different forms but it is the same fear. The fear that the ground will be too far away to find safety, or maybe, the fear that they will fly and realise that there is no limit to how high you can go.

I see it in handstand. A flip on the rings. Crow pose. A back extension on a machine that requires them to let their torso hang in mid-air with nothing underneath but the unproven promise that they won't fall.

They approach. They go a little. Then they step back.

They stand straight. Look at me. Look around the room. Look at me again.

And go a little more.

Then a little more.

Then a little more.

Until we get there. Together.

And when they come down, no matter how much they flew, whether they hit the wall or not, whether they made it all the way over or not — their faces are pure joy. Huge smiles. Immediate determination to go again. The realisation that flight didn’t mean the ground wasn’t there for them when they needed it but that they could be further away from it than they had ever thought possible.

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There is a lady in one of my classes who will definitely not go upside down.

She watches the others play on the rings with an expression I have come to know very well. It’s the kid peeping around the door frame trying to get a sneaky peek at Santa putting presents under the tree (too soon to talk about Christmas??? Let’s put a pin in that because I have something there you might like).

Back to my lovely lady. She asks me about the health benefits of inversions every single session. And listens to the answer with the focused interest of someone being prescribed a medication they are staunchly trying not to take but know they need.

Last week I wanted her to try back extensions on the GHD.

For the uninitiated: feet secured (not tied in, just supported so you don’t fall), hips supported, torso free. Picture any flying superhero on their way to a rescue mission and you have the end position. Parallel to the floor, nothing underneath you, just air and the quiet understanding that your body knows how to hold itself.

She got on the machine.

She held the handles. By held I mean death gripped.

Over the next two minutes she worked her way down, tiny movement by tiny movement, until she could touch the floor — where she held the base of the machine like she was going to be carried away with her next exhale.

When I asked if she could let go, she literally couldn't.

Her hands were gripping so tightly that letting go was genuinely impossible. Not unwilling. Not dramatic. Impossible.

So we stayed there. At the floor. Together.

I helped her down. She vowed she would never go on that machine again.

We moved on. I programmed something with a stability ball that had us all in stitches — I will not elaborate, and the laughter wasn’t necessarily intentional, but it is difficult to maintain existential terror when you are laughing that hard.

Then it was time.

She thought I wouldn't ask her again even though I told her I would.

And I did.

We walked back to the machine together. She got on. Lowered herself down.

And let go.

Then, very gingerly, squeezed her bum.

And flew.

I sat on the floor and stayed at eye level the entire time. All ten reps. When she came back up she complained that ‘it really gets your bum’.

I was absolutely thrilled about the complaint.

We continued. We did more exercises. And then it was time again.

This time I stepped back and let her go alone. I watched the whole time, ready if I was needed.

I was not needed. I did well up. Not a small amount. And yes I let her see it.

She nailed it. Pro style. And came back with the exact same look I have seen on the face of every woman who has just done her first flip on the rings or tried her first kickup to handstand against the wall - even if she didn’t get all the way up.

Pure. Joy. All this in under 15 minutes.

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I have been thinking about why this moment moves me so much. Why the hesitation means something more than ‘I can’t’ or ‘I won’t’.

And I think it is this.

I always assumed the fear of being upside down, or of letting go, or of leaving the ground was about falling. The bump on the way back down. The embarrassment of not making it. The worry that the arms won't hold or the rings will slip or the machine will somehow betray her.

But I don't think that's it.

Watch someone approach a handstand or a GHD or a backward roll on the rings and you will see something interesting. They don't hold back because they think they'll hit the floor.

They hold back because they're not sure what happens if they don't.

We know where the ground is. It's steady. It's familiar. It’s always there.

Flying has none of that.

Flying has no ceiling.

And I think that might be the most frightening thing of all.

Not the risk of falling back to earth with a bump, we’ve all done than. I have done it so many times in the pursuit of a new skill that it doesn’t phase me at all. But the risk of discovering that the sky goes on forever. That there is no upper limit. No safe boundary to tell you when to stop. No ceiling to bump your head against and say: well, that's as far as I go.

What if there isn't a ceiling?

What if you are more capable than you have ever allowed yourself to be?

What do you do with that?

And what if, not being able to see or touch the ground doesn’t mean it’s not there. It just means you trusted yourself to go somewhere you’ve never been and felt something you’ve never felt.

This is part of the Balance pillar of The Way Home. My book (yes I wrote a book and yes that meant I had to leave the safety of the ground to do it). The last chapter. The one I thought I already knew all the contents for until I had this thought.

The whole book — the nervous system tools, the inner needs, the self-knowledge, the second questions on the dog walks, the handstands and the pull ups and the rings — all of it is preparation for this moment.

The moment you release the base of the machine.

The moment you stop asking what happens if you fall and start asking what happens if you fly (thank you Erin Hanson, and yes, I thought this was J.M Barrie too until I looked into it).

The moment you discover not that the sky was always bigger than you let yourself believe but that you are allowed to go further than you thought you ever would.

And the bum workout is excellent. Very functional. Very good for the vestibular system, lower back and that little forgotten muscle we call joy. I cannot stress this enough.

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One Thing For You — Where Are You Holding The Machine?

Think of one area of your life where you are gripping the base.

Not because you are about to fall. But because you are not sure what happens if you don't.

You don't have to let go today. You don't have to fly on the first attempt.

Just notice the grip.

Notice what you are holding onto and ask yourself — very gently, the way I ask at the base of the machine — what would happen if I let go, just a little?

That's all. Just a little.

The bum squeeze comes later.

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From the Trail

This week the From the Trail comes from a blackberry bramble.

Tis the season for that dark sweet beautiful fruit. I used to pick blackberries with my Mum and sister every year. The last time I went foraging was while Mum was having her chemo. We called to a spot we both loved after treatment one afternoon. The bushes were close to the car and we both filled Tupperware with the biggest berries we could find. Mum wasn’t able to eat so this wasn’t about gathering food, it was about being outside, together, sun on our skin, seeing life, including our beloved dragonflies, move around us.

I haven’t picked blackberries for 2 years. I though about it but couldn’t go.

This year I did. Me and the boys spent 45 minutes scouring the best spot I know for the sweetest fruit. It felt nice. And horrible. You get scratched a lot picking blackberries. Somehow, next to my thought about flying, this felt fitting. Just like flying, you have to be a little bit scared to get the best results. Getting scratched becomes part of the experience. Leaving the ground becomes part of the thrill.

Oh and in case you were wondering, they go spectacularly with Aldi’s chocolate protein pudding and a few flaked almonds. Chefs kiss.

Until next time, keep walking the trail.

Becky x

P.S. This week my I programmed back extensions again. She nailed it without hesitating. She even added weight, pro style. I said nothing. Just smiled and cried a little. She knows.

P.P.S. Henstands is now officially a thing you can book. Seventy-five minutes of movement, play, prosecco, homemade cake, and a personalised magic shot portrait created from something true about who you are. Not what you do. Who you are. Eight to twelve women (and men if you are sharing with your male besties or stags), £65 per person.

P.P.P.S. Mission Pull Up’s waitlist is open. Highway to Handstand’s waitlist is is open. The sky has no ceiling. Just saying.

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