You Jump, So They Jump: Leadership, Fear, and Radical Honesty

Leadership isn't about being fearless. It's about having the willingness to go first.

Back in February, I turned up to a parachuting course in the USA. Six days long. The first three? Ground training. Day four? You jump. And here’s the thing no one quite prepares you for: you jump alone.

From the first jump, there’s no tandem. No one holding your hand. You stand in that doorway, feet to the edge, and you decide.

And that’s when leadership becomes real—not just theoretical.

I didn’t fully grasp the weight of what I’d signed up for until I was sitting in training, listening to all the ways things could go wrong. The instructors didn’t sell it like that, of course—but my brain flipped every safety instruction into a threat. My nervous system was doing what it’s designed to do: protect me. Terrify me out of taking the leap.

The group I trained with? 95% military or ex-military. Most of them looked exactly like what you'd imagine in that setting—trained, experienced, tough.

Then there was me.

Five feet tall. Ninety pounds. Female. I had to wear a weighted vest just to make the equipment function correctly. The kit didn’t fit me the way it fit the others. The harness rubbed in places it wasn’t meant to. The drills had to be adapted. From the outside, I was at a disadvantage. But I still showed up. And I still jumped.

Not once, but five times.

And something changed in me.

Because when I got to that jump site, I expected to be the most scared. I expected to hide it. But what happened was the opposite.

As we waited for takeoff, the group opened up. People were nervous. Seasoned jumpers were nervous. Men trained to compartmentalize and push down fear were saying it out loud: “It never fully goes away.”

No one mocked it. No one shrugged it off. It was the most honest space I’d ever seen a group of men hold.

That was the first time I realised: real leadership doesn’t fake fearlessness. It normalizes fear—and chooses to act anyway.

Now, I’m a coach. And in coaching, just like in life, people are often standing in that metaphorical door.

They're scared. They're resisting. They're not sure they can do it.

And here's the truth no one wants to admit: so am I.

I left stability behind to make coaching my full-time work. I’ve chosen an unconventional path. I’ve gone against the grain. And even though things are working, even though I know I’m where I’m supposed to be—I still feel the fear.

My nervous system is still catching up to my reality. Because that’s what growth feels like.

This is why leadership matters so much. Not in titles. Not in branding. But in action.

You don’t just tell people to jump. You go first. You model what belief looks like—when belief is shaky. You take the leap—when your legs are shaking too. You show them what’s possible by choosing it yourself.

In just over three months, I’ll be going back to that same course. But this time, I’m not the one being coached—I’ll be one of the coaches.

I’ve been invited to support the next group of 30+ participants at Jump School, helping them face the same edge I once stood on. Some of them will be veterans. Some will be civilians looking to reclaim something in themselves. All of them will come face-to-face with fear.

And I will jump again—not because I want to, but because I have to.

Because if I expect these people to trust me, to take that step, to push through everything screaming “no” in their heads—then I have to be right there with them. In the air. In the fear. In the choice.

I will go first. Because leadership is not about being above someone. It’s about standing beside them when the wind hits their face and saying, “I get it. I’ve been there. I’m going too.”

This is coaching. This is what I believe in. And this is what I’ll be doing—again—at 1,500 feet.