Secret Phobia

Growing up, I didn’t have phobias. When friends confessed their deepest fears, I’d just brush them off, utterly confused. I didn’t even understand my mom’s fears. To me, she was a real-life superhero. How could a woman like her be afraid of anything?

My mom was a powerhouse. She raised my sisters and me to be no-nonsense women with a strong work ethic and impeccable manners. She led by example, radiating confidence, intelligence, kindness, and a joy that was always evident in her laugh. She could handle anything—with one deeply guarded secret.

I don’t recall ever noticing her being afraid of anything before this specific incident, but the memory is burned into my mind like a classic movie scene.

The Family Vacation

Because my dad was in the US Air Force, he earned 30 days of vacation each year. Most years he’d book them all consecutively in the summer, packing us all into the car for the ultimate 1960s road trip. We saw America through a windshield—conquering Six Flags amusement parks, stopping for roadside picnics, and, eventually, arriving at our final destination. In this case, we went to the Gateway Arch in St. Louis, Missouri.

As young girls standing at the base of the Arch, my sisters and I craned our necks in awe, looking up and up and up until our heads spun. My dad said to us, “Do you see those tiny windows up there? We’re going to be able to look out of those windows!” 

Three young girls cheered and ran toward the entrance. We completely missed our mother’s hesitation. But like a true Hollywood heroine, she was a strong, confident woman who would take care of her children through anything that came along. She masked her dread, swallowed her fear, and followed her family into the belly of the beast.

The Plot Twists (Literally)

If you’ve never seen the Gateway Arch, it features no straight lines. The two massive legs curve inward until they meet perfectly in the middle. Because of this geometry, the tram pods can’t just go straight up. To prevent passengers from being tilted sideways, the elevator has to make sudden, mechanical adjustments on the way up.

My mother climbed into the cramped five-person pod with us, sat down, and clutched her purse to her chest like a shield. As we ascended, the pod began to tilt. You could actually feel gravity shifting, forcing your legs and back to fight for balance. Suddenly—clunk—the pod shifted to adjust for the curve.

Instinct took over. Mom let out a sharp “Oh!” and her arm shot out, deploying the classic “Mom Seatbelt”—the universal reflex usually reserved for sudden stops in the family station wagon.

We all, except for Mom, dissolved into giggles. Mom did not see the comedy in our situation. She just offered another breathless “Oh!” when the pod finally ground to a halt at the top.

The ride up only took four minutes, but to her, it probably felt much longer.

The Climax: Standing in the Center

Dad led us straight to the windows, and we happily peered down the 630 feet to the ground, marveling at how objects appeared so small at that distance.

But when I turned around, I noticed Mom.

She was standing dead-center in the middle of the observation deck, as far from both sides of the Arch as physically possible.

I ran over and tugged her hand, excitedly trying to drag her to the window. “Come on, Mom! You have to see this!”

She planted her feet, shook her head, and said, “I can see just fine from here.”

The Final Credits

I know now that she was battling a textbook case of vertigo. She never admitted it to me. Maybe out of embarrassment? Or maybe because she belonged to a generation of women who refused to let anyone see them sweat. She should not have felt she had to hide it, of course, but those were different times, and mothers were expected to embody strength and composure at all times.

Yet, looking back, I admire her even more for it. Even when faced with her own personal horror movie, she refused to miss out on the adventure. She loved everything life had to offer—she just preferred to enjoy the view at a safe distance from the edge.