I’m not a fan of escalators. Right after our third son was born, my children and I ventured to a shopping mall in Louisville, Kentucky. We wound up on a steep escalator. I held my hefty infant on one arm and an umbrella stroller in the other hand. My nine-year-old and seven-year-old sons stood in front of me. Halfway down the moving stairs, the universe shifted. I lost my balance, causing us to tumble. I managed to cushion the baby, who didn’t get hurt. The other three of us ended up with significant cuts and bruises.

For years, whenever I’ve had to ride an escalator, my insides felt like jelly. I’d always choose stairs if I had the option. In airports, you’d see my husband cruising down an escalator while I trudged down steps, my suitcase bumping all the way.

Fast forward to two years ago. You can enter our local Michael’s Arts Supplies store only via an escalator or elevator. One day, the ascending escalator was broken. Rather than take the elevator, I climbed under the yellow tape and walked up the broken steps.

The descending escalator did work. So, after shopping, I engaged in positive self-talk, prepping for the trip down. As I approached, I saw a small boy wailing at the top of the moving stairs. His grandmother stood at the bottom, begging him to get on. She held several large bags. My guess is that she’d started down expecting the boy to follow.

The grandmother called up at me. “Can you please help him?”

My first impulse was to shout the Louisville story then point out how I couldn’t be trusted with children on escalators. Instead, I worked up my courage, grabbed the child’s hand and we descended without incident.

When I told my husband what happened, he asked, “Why didn’t you just take the elevator?”

It didn’t occur to me. My fear of escalators had paralyzed my brain, rendering me incapable of coming up with an alternative solution to the problem.

The only thing worse than living a life affected by paralyzing fear is living a life afflicted by paralyzing stupidity. When I was in college, I loved the thrill of a good adventure. My junior year, I worked as the resident advisor for a group of first year women. One dull weeknight, I planned to liven things up by taking a few girls to get ice cream sundaes at Blood and Bones, a restaurant a couple of miles away. We walked down the well-lit main road before the sun set, then we turned onto the country road where the restaurant was located. On the way back, I decided we could avoid being on the dark rural road by taking a short cut along some train tracks behind the restaurant. Someone told me the tracks crossed the main road that led back to campus. After enjoying the sundaes, we started walking alongside the railroad tracks into the pitch-black night, not a flashlight among us. A mile out, we discovered that the tracks traversed a steep ravine. If we wanted to keep going forward, we had to walk directly on the rails. We didn’t know how far the ravine extended and had no idea when the next train might come barreling through.

I froze, paralyzed by my own stupidity. We decided to run for it. Fortunately, luck was on our side.

These days, I do not make nighttime jaunts on train tracks. Furthermore, I’m sad to say that I’m more likely to eat low-fat, sugar-free yogurt than delicious ice cream.

For the most part, I’ve gotten over my fear of escalators. That day at Michael’s proved to be a turning point. Somehow, my irrational fear of tumbling was permanently soothed by the comforting presence of that small boy holding my hand as we descended.

However, now, whenever I am on an escalator, I always hover my free hand over the railing, which is a way of hedging my bets. Maybe this habit reflects a good life strategy. Be brave, keep moving, trust you’ll get where you want to go, and just in case, stay within reach of a guardrail.