I’m Possible: Falling Into Flight
What If the Sky Was Never the Limit?
You don’t have to fly like Superwoman to conquer the impossible. Sometimes it’s the quiet choices—the push through fear, the leap into uncertainty, the courage to come back down—that reveal who we really are.
More Than a Typographic Trick
We hear it often—the word impossible split in two, reimagined as I’m possible. A neat trick of typography, sure, but what does it really mean?
It’s not just about conquering Everest or curing disease. Sometimes the truest “I’m possible” moments are quiet, internal. They happen in the unseen corners of our lives—when no one is clapping, no medals are awarded, and the fear is still in your throat.
The Caged Eagle and the Mafia Terrier
Take the story of the eagle raised in a chicken coop. Clipped wings. A sky in its blood but no memory of how to use it. The gate eventually opens, but it never leaves the ground. Why? Not because it can’t, but because it never knew it could. That’s the tragedy of untested power.
Now flip it. There’s the 10-pound terrier who runs the pack of Great Danes like a mafia boss. No size, no pedigree—but unshakable self-belief. That’s the miracle of inner force. Small doesn't mean insignificant. Sometimes small means concentrated.
Legends with Hidden Wings
We see this paradox in people, too. Michael Jackson, for all his controversy, grew up in a strict, suffocating world and somehow became a generational talent. Oprah Winfrey, who endured abuse and poverty, became the voice of millions. Most legends weren't born with wings. They grew them in secret.
My Love Affair with Flight
For me, flight has always been a fascination. A longing. I saw it in Amelia Earhart, in Superwoman, in birds rushing toward storms. So I do the next best thing: I fall from the sky.
At 18,000 feet, I jump out of planes. You don’t really jump, though—you push. Against a door. Against instinct. Against the part of you that still wants control. That moment—body rigid, wind screaming in at 120 mph (about 200 kph)—you feel like a bug about to hit a windshield. Pushing yourself through that open hatch? That’s the second hardest part.
Then comes the fall. 60 seconds of pure surrender. The loudest silence I hear. I’m not thinking about groceries or deadlines. I’m not thinking at all. I am simply being. The fall feels more like flying than anything I have ever done.
The Truest Test
It’s always the landing.
Technically, it’s where most skydiving injuries happen. Your posture has to be exact—feet together, toes up, knees slightly bent. You need to flare the parachute at the right moment or you risk hitting the ground too fast. Too soon. Wrong angle, and you could break an ankle. Or worse. Your body’s screaming with adrenaline, your legs are shaky, and still—you have to stick the landing. Gracefully, if possible. Alive, above all.
Emotionally, landing is harder than jumping. Because coming down means coming back to earth. It means letting go of the part of you that felt infinite. It means gravity wins, and you still have to walk through life with all your baggage. You have to fold the parachute. You have to remember how to be human again.
The Question That Matters
And yet—I land. I live. I touch the impossible and now carry its mark.
So here’s what I want to ask you:
What’s your impossible?
Not the big, flashy one the world expects—but the quiet one? The one hiding in your breath, your bones, your dreams? The one that might just be screaming:
I AM POSSIBLE
Maybe it’s time you test your wings.
Or push against the door.
Or land with shaking legs but a full heart.
The cage was never locked.