The scariest moment of my life

Be thankful for what you have. Don't worry about what you don't.

We hadn’t been on a family vacation since the pandemic started. Our girls are young and it took a while before they were vaccinated.

I don’t know whose idea it was to fly 26 hours across the world... with another family... who have three kids under the age of 10…

But somehow, here we were. Spring Break in Thailand, all of us together. And I have to say, it all turned out to be pretty amazing.

Well, it was mostly amazing. We had a few not-so-great moments. Like when we arrived at our hotels in Bangkok, only to discover that there were a few local hotels with the same names and we accidentally booked the wrong hotels. Or when, a wave crashed into our kayak and dumped us into the ocean. Or when, at a different hotel in Krabi, our boat dropped us off but didn’t realize it was low tide and was grounded until 11pm.

And of course, there was the challenge of managing the kiddos, who got along well but would occasionally bicker and argue over who had what. We typically diffused that with a simple reminder of a message we’ve been sharing with our kids for years:

“Be thankful for what you have. Don’t worry about what you don’t.”

That comment usually defused their tensions and got them back to whatever they were playing. I like to think that they basked in our wisdom and found themselves one step closer to enlightenment. Most likely, though, they realized that getting along was the best way to avoid our annoying parental advice.

The most stunning moment came early in our trip. We were visiting a national park near Chiang Mai that’s popular among locals and tourists. They call the place Sticky Falls, and for good reason: the water that flows from mineral-rich springs deposits calcium on the rocks all around it, limiting algae growth and making it possible to climb up the limestone and through the waterfalls. It’s just as cool as it sounds, and if you’re planning a trip to Thailand, the Sticky Falls are definitely worth visiting.

But if you go, don’t make the same mistake we did.

There are a few levels to the falls, and due to a translation error, we accidentally took the kids to the final and most advanced level near the top rather than the elementary level for kids at the bottom.

For the most part, climbing the advanced level wasn’t a problem. The other dad went up front with his two older, uber-athletic boys. Their mom was next, helping their five-year-old up the falls. I was behind them with our older daughter, and my wife trailed us with our youngest girl. I worried at first, testing the grip at each step to make sure this was real and we were safe. I’d never seen anything like it before. But I gained more comfort the farther we climbed. The few patches of algae, while slippery, were few and far between.

For the steeper portions of the climb, and where the falls gushed more intensely, we would grab thick ropes latched into the ground and pull ourselves up and across. The older kids managed the ropes pretty well; the younger kids struggled enough that their moms would pick them up with one hand while holding the rope with the other.

I know this because I watched the mom in front of me pick up her daughter by the back of her underwear so hard and so often that the poor girl had a wedgie through our entire climb.

The last part of the climb was the most challenging. The boys made it to the top, and I wanted to get my daughter there too, so that I could go back and help the moms with the younger ones. We made our way to the top, and once it flattened out, I sent my daughter to go wait with the boys. I stood up and turned around, near the edge of the falls, pausing to enjoy the experience for a moment before going to help.

I heard a pair of screams, and from the corner of my eye, I saw a small mass hurtling towards me. Without thinking, I stuck out my leg to stop it. I drove my other foot down as an anchor as the mass slammed into my leg and wrapped around it. Still in reaction mode, I dropped my body down, feet still anchored, to ensure the mass couldn’t slip away and over the water’s edge.

I think that’s when I realized it was my daughter.

I sat there quietly, stunned, clutching onto her. I looked up and saw our two friends looking up at me, wide-eyed. I don’t remember anyone saying anything. Maybe they did, but I couldn’t hear anything except the water rushing past us. At some point, I remembered to breathe.

I looked down at my daughter, who was still clinging to my leg, now looking up at me. We locked eyes, and she asked if I was okay. I’m sure she sensed the fear pouring out from me. I’m also sure that she didn’t understand the magnitude of what just happened. The fragility of life. One second, we’re here. The next, we’re gone. How little control we have over what happens. How little say at the edge of death.

I’m not a dramatic person, and for better and for worse, I’m not emotionally shaken by much. I’ve been like this as long as I can remember. But this experience shook me. When my wife and younger daughter came up the side of the fall, I realized I how thankful I was that they hadn’t seen our near miss. We gathered the kids and walked back to our car, the kids playing upfront and the adults discussing what happened, each of us replaying what it was like. After a few minutes, I asked to change the subject. I couldn’t handle it.

The ride back to our hotel was about 90 minutes, and while everyone else bantered, I stayed mostly quiet, thinking about what just happened. Feelings of horror, helplessness, and gratitude swirled all around me. I sat next to my daughter in the van, and every few minutes, I would just reach over to grab her hand or hug her tight. She’d never felt so precious to me.

That night, and for the next few nights, I had trouble sleeping. Any time I closed my eyes, the scene would start replaying. The outcome was always the same, thank god, but so were the intense emotions. The fear, the uncertainty, and ultimately, the appreciation that nothing tragic happened. This was a new experience for me, too, and I abhorred reliving it. I found myself watching movies on my phone to distract myself to fall asleep at night. Not the best solution, but it helped.

We talked about what happened a few times during the trip, and each time, I could last a little longer in the conversation before bowing out. I wanted to write about it since returning, but that took me about a month, too, before I felt fully comfortable to even sit with it. Here I am now, sharing the scariest moment of my life.

As a parent, my mind immediately goes to other parents who have lost children. For the first time in my life, I feel like I have a fractional understanding of their hurt. The intensity of my own hurt—in a moment where I didn’t even lose my daughter but had to confront the possibility—makes me even more fearful now. It’s a real possibility. People we know personally have lost children in all kinds of ways. Illness. Accidents. Violence. War.

Death is all around us. It can come at any time, including in the midst of luxury, on spring break in another country. I’ve had the luxury of ignoring death, or at least not thinking about it coming for my kids.

Now, for the first time, I had to confront the inevitability of their death, and the daunting possibility that it could come at any time. It’s the last thing I wanted to think about, yet I couldn’t think about anything else.

The few days after the near miss, I found myself falling into a negative mental spiral. I thought a lot about what could have happened and the devastation I would have felt. I scolded myself for letting the situation happen in the first place. I focused especially on the transience of life for our kids and how, as their parents, we can’t protect them from everything.

Through that time, I found myself especially grateful for my girls’ safety and well-being. I continued holding them close when I could, and watching them play when they were distant. In a way, you can say that I was jolted into living into the present. I was so conscious of what could have been that I was no longer taking for granted what actually was.

Here's what I learned through this intense experience that I wouldn’t wish on anyone.

So often, we’re focused on our regrets about what could have been that we’re living in the past. So often, we’re captivated by our fears of what could happen that we’re living in the future.

Reflecting on the past and preparing for the future are instructive. No doubt about that.

But when we let them consume us, as I did just after the waterfall incident, finding happiness becomes impossible because living in the present becomes impossible.

I began to understand that the lesson we shared with our kids was more profound than I realized. It helped me understand how gratitude is a tool that helps us live in the present, rather than in the regret of our past or fear of the future.

It’s a simple lesson but one we can all live by every day.

“Be thankful for what you have. Don’t worry about what you don’t.”