Sometimes the bravest thing is saying no.

A Postcard-Perfect Day

It was one of those postcard-perfect days in Grindelwald—wooden chalets, cowbells clinking in the distance, pastures brushed with wildflowers. The air smelled of grass and snow. It felt like anything was possible.

The Plan: First Cliff Walk by Tissot

We had set out for the First Cliff Walk by Tissot, a metal walkway that clings to the mountainside and suspends visitors over a dizzying drop with panoramic views of the Eiger. It’s the kind of attraction made for Instagram—arms outstretched, smiles frozen over the void.

I wasn’t smiling.

The Ascent: Fear in the Cable Car

Before boarding the cable car, I’d made a quick detour to the tourist office—just to be sure. Then up we went. Partway through the ride, a mountain cart clipped onto our cabin. The lift paused briefly. Nothing dramatic, but my stomach flipped. I gripped the bar, breathing carefully.

“I could jump from here,” I told M.

“Yes, and break a leg maybe,” he replied, munching on salty chickpeas.

“At least we won’t die of starvation.”

The lift resumed, and we continued upward.

The Decision: Turning Back

At the top, the cliff walk loomed ahead—steely and exposed. M moved forward, already snapping photos. I looked once, then turned away. This wasn’t my moment.

Instead, I walked to the café.

A Cappuccino and a View

I ordered a cappuccino and a piece of Swiss chocolate—dark, dense, slow to melt. From the terrace, I watched the brave ones inch across the walkway. Others were barreling downhill in the same mountain carts we’d seen on the lift. I decided that wasn’t my descent either.

I sipped my cappuccino and thought of The Magic Mountain by Thomas Mann—a philosophical novel that follows Hans Castorp’s journey through a tuberculosis sanatorium in the Swiss Alps. There, he encounters diverse worldviews and reflects on the nature of time, illness, and human existence. It is set not far from here in the Bernese Oberland. High altitudes prompt big questions, but not all of us are ready to answer them from a metal footbridge.

I was here, too, to seek a peaceful, still moment, far from the thrill of danger. Sometimes comfort, not conquest, feels like the more courageous choice. Coffee and chocolate became my refuge, far preferable to the perilous, dizzying ledge ahead.

I also thought of a legend I’d read: According to a 16th-century tale, a cruel monk named Leonardus fell in love with a young girl named Martha. When she fled into the mountains to escape him, she leapt from a cliff. As punishment, Leonardus was turned to stone. People say his face is now visible in the rock face of the Harder Kulm.

That morning, I chose quiet over conquest. Chocolate over cliff walks. And that choice felt like a peaceful defiance.

I don’t know why heights rattle me the way they do. Maybe it’s an old fear I’ve carried too long. But I no longer feel the need to fight it. I’m not interested in being afraid just to prove something..

I thought of Mary Oliver’s The Journey, a poem that reminds us the path to ourselves isn’t always bold or loud—but it is brave:

“One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice…”

That morning in Grindelwald, I realized there is courage in choosing what comforts you.

From Thomas Mann’s The Magic Mountain (Der Zauberberg)

German: “Denn das Glück, sagte er sich, ist nicht, geliebt zu werden; das ist mit Ekel gemischte Genugtuung für die Eitelkeit. Das Glück ist, zu lieben und vielleicht kleine, trügerische Annäherungen an den geliebten Gegenstand zu erhaschen.” 

English Translation: “For happiness, he told himself, is not to be loved; that is a satisfaction for one’s vanity mixed with loathing. Happiness is to love and perhaps catch small, deceitful approximations of the loved object.”