Published July 21, 2026 08:45AM
In the cramped and dingy bathroom of a crowded theme park, I splashed cold water on my face and made suspicious eye contact with myself in the mirror. “Are you sure you want to do this?” I asked myself as if I were my own parent. “You’re not just going along with it to look cool, are you?”
I was referencing the fact that my friends and I had planned to climb aboard an enormous and angry-looking steel serpent of a roller coaster. Its track was jam-packed with so many twists, turns, and loops, I was certain the centrifugal force would permanently Picasso my face.
As a kid, I couldn’t get enough of the thrill of amusement park rides, including roller coasters. The anticipation while waiting in line. The whoosh of the take-off that left me speechless and thoughtless. The click-click-click of the ascent and the ecstatic freefall that lurched my stomach into my heart.
Things changed as I got older. I’d ridden only one roller coaster throughout my 20s. Each second waiting—in line, on board, ascending before the first big drop—felt like torture. A heart attack waiting to happen. I learned that I preferred my stomach exactly where it is, thank you very much.
But on this particular afternoon last month, my friends and I found ourselves in this amusement park simply as the result of having a “Yes, and…” sorta day. You know, the kind where, “Should we get Mexican food?” turns into “Should we stop by this amusement park that’s on the way home?” It was a whimsical sort of summer day when, as long as the sun is out, the only appropriate response to the inkling of adventure is, “Why not?”
I was quickly sobered by the gut-spilling screams of those on the very ride to which we were inching closer. Not to mention my OCD was OCD-ing. Imagined lines of dialogue from a would-be future echoed against the all-too-real backtrack of metal clinking against metal. “She had such a promising future…until she went on that roller coaster when she was 32.”
Somewhat comforted by the fact that there were actual children waiting beside me for the same ride, I tried to distract myself with a little mindfulness. “I am waiting in line,” I thought. That still felt loaded with impending doom. “I am standing.” That felt better. Then, when the line moved, I thought, “I am walking.” I alternated between thoughts of the literal thing I was doing to “YOU’RE MAKING AN IRREVERSIBLE MISTAKE!” The cautionary plastic box containing people’s mutilated cell phones with the warning, “Take all loose items out of your pockets!” didn’t exactly soothe me, either.
Finally, we were locked and loaded into the machine. I’d committed to experiencing the ride, and something about knowing I couldn’t turn back—at least without publicly sobbing to the ride operator to let me off—felt comforting. In the fleeting moments between settling into the seat and being whisked away, I felt alive and fully present. Like a bird whose head moves in all directions at the faintest perceived movement or sound.
One of my friends sitting in the car in front of me turned back and suggested we all lift our hands in the air for the duration of the ride. Just as I was telling him to stop talking (in more colorful language), our conversation evaporated into thin air as the ride jolted into motion.
Suddenly my body was a helpless speck against the speed, motion, and rhythm of the ride. Almost as soon as we turned right, we turned left. We spiraled and we straightened out. We dropped down and lifted back up faster than I could form a thought. I closed my eyes. I felt my body clench and my mind resist the fact that I was experiencing pure chaos with no predictable pattern. How could I settle myself and the immense panic rising in my chest?
No doubt as a result of the hundreds of yoga classes I’ve attended throughout my life, I thought, “Focus on your breath.” So I did.
At first it was shallow. But after a few seconds, I felt my belly press up against the restraint on my inhalations. My exhalations deepened, too. Then I felt something quite strange—my muscles relaxed a little.
I imagined “sending by breath” into every erratic movement and high-speed turn of the roller coaster. I also imagined expanding my breath into my body and my body expanding in all directions. As a result, I was less shocked by the bait-and-switch pulls in opposite directions because, energetically, I was opening myself up. I was surrendering.
Throughout the ride, I kept breathing, thinking “in” on my inhalations and “out” on my exhalations. When a sudden descent or spiral distracted me from my mission, I returned to my “ins” and “outs” once again.
Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t having a super chill time. I was still on a roller coaster. But I was shocked that, despite the disturbing elements around me—steel beams, screams (my own), and high speeds—I could control my breath. Even while I was upside down, my breath worked to calm me. To help me let go. What surprised me the most is that it was actually easier for me to meditate on a roller coaster than it often is in yoga class. Maybe because focusing on my breath was the only reasonable choice in the face of this threat to my survival for which I willingly signed up under the guise of “It’ll be fun!”
The ride eventually ended and when I opened my eyes, I felt frazzled and a little dizzy. Not surprisingly, I once again swore off roller coasters. But the lessons the ride taught me weren’t lost—and I credit yoga for the fact that I was receptive to them at all. They were, of course, about life. How when we resist, we create more pain. When we open ourselves to any experience, there doesn’t need to be panic about whether or not we’re “supposed” to be doing something, or whether or not we’ll regret it. Maybe it’s not so much about trusting the ride, but trusting ourselves to experience it.
