I stood with my hands dangling above the blazing hot wooden railing that had been cooking for hours under the boiling sun. Several metres beyond the railing was a collection of metal train tracks, twisting and turning in all directions.

 

Sometimes they turned upwards.

 

Sometimes they turned downwards.

 

Sometimes they turned upside down.

 

Perhaps the real pivotal moment was the day I shattered the railing, the constraints, and the barrier between me and the rattling tracks. The day I pushed apart the mini wooden gate and conquered the barrier protecting me from being confined within those restraints. The day I stepped foot into the seat of the roller coaster wasn't the day I first met fear, but it was the day I found my sense of belonging and familiarity, ironically with a handful of strangers I’d likely never encounter again. 

 

Picture a profoundly introverted seven-year-old, constantly under pressure from my parents, teachers, and peers encouraging me to “conquer my inner fear.” I was judged because I was too shy to put up my hand in class when I needed to go to the bathroom. Judgement landed on me for spending my day counting the number of orange versus white coloured fish swimming in the pond instead of counting "1, 2, 3, here I come!" with the other children in my building. The fish didn't judge me, but people did. Kids my age, or even younger than me, would brag about their bravery for being on the other side of the railing.

 

Standing by the wooden railing with the beaming hot sun creating uncomfortable droplets of sweat on my forehead was the strangely typical amusement that I enjoyed at an amusement park. I pondered over the coaster as it progressed up the track. I heard the riders’ nervous jitters with their feet dangling in front of the coaster, anticipating the drop. They laughed, they cheered, they joked around with one another. The coaster progressed even closer to the edge of the drop, and the volume of their voices rapidly increased as the train tipped slightly over the hill and plunged down the track. 

 

The screams of that singular ride echoed through each destination in the expansive park. The sound of their voices flowed with the fluidity of the curvy train tracks. I noticed the pitch differentiation when the train was upside down versus it being right-side up. Some riders had their hands above their heads, while some people gripped their seat restraints so tightly their arms turned red. I watched when the train moved upwards and downwards in a fast but smooth motion, and how people screamed at the top of their lungs only to return with wide grins when they stepped back onto safe ground. I watched when the train came to a halt, and the expressionless faces waiting in the hour-long line were replaced with exhilarated faces exiting through the gate after a handful of speedy loops. I watched as the train slowly made its way into the building again and the people stepped out, thrilled with their experience. I watched again as another train progressed up the track, with a different set of people, and observed the same reactions. 

 

People entered the line as distant individuals scared to acknowledge their fate, but they exit the line as a group of people connected by a fond memory.

 

By second grade, I had already watched at least four different roller coasters in three different theme parks. I stood for an hour, even two, just watching the same roller coaster going up the track and down once again, without intending to ride. My parents waited patiently and encouraged me to go line up and kill my curiosity, but I refused. They stood there for an hour next to me, and watched me watch a roller coaster go up and down 20 times. They once again told me that I had to destroy the inner barrier in my heart at school or even at home facing similar obstacles. I told them I wasn’t scared of roller coasters, and that I preferred watching them anyways. 

 

The footsteps approaching the amusement park destination were taken with no expectations for the “thrill” of each ride. As the distance between me and the entrance shrank from 15 metres to five metres, I turned my attention to the tall track standing at the end of the park. It looked just like every other thrill coaster I had seen, with a long ascending track leading to a straight downwards fall. The train was designed like a parrot. A rich shade of red paired with the vibrant hues of yellow and blue. I scrutinised the coaster again, up close this time, to observe all the details engraved on the parrot. I saw the design of the feathers, the green dangling seats that represented the tree branches, and the head of the parrot at the front row, looking forward in a daring manner. It was nearly sunset, and I had missed at least six chances to join the line due to my endless gazing at the parrot coaster soaring around the sky. 

 

I was standing in the lineup. Squirming and peering over at the train. The worst-case scenario was death, and if I died, I would never have to do this again. I could sit by the pond and start counting the number of scales on every fish somewhere in the afterlife. In mere minutes, the deathly restraints pressed against my shoulders with a tight grasp. With that, the train moved up the hill. I tried to distract myself by making eye contact with the artificial parrot, who was looking straight ahead; it had embraced its fate with determined eyes that didn’t break its focus on the green track in front of it, headed for disaster. I tried to focus on the design of the track below me while listening to the familiar nervous laughter behind me, which increased in volume the higher the coaster climbed. The coaster inched closer and closer to the fall, and in the matter of seconds, it plummeted down the hill.

 

Panic? Fear? Disgust?

 

No. 

 

It was freedom.

 

The wind grazed my skin while the coaster descended on the twisty tracks. I didn’t hold the seat restraints, and let the coaster guide me wherever it felt like I needed to be. Surprisingly, I even felt a hint of calm. Every time the coaster went upwards, I felt myself consuming positive energy, building anticipation towards the fall. Every time the coaster dropped downwards, it was an exhale that released any tension I originally felt. There was nothing in my mind, and the only movement within my body was the guided movement caused by the natural flow of wind. I let the coaster take me up, take me down, to the left and to the right. My posture adjusted so that the wind pattern immersed my body in the flow. It sometimes pressed my chest closer to the seat restraints, while other times it pushed me against the back of the seat. For once, I didn’t think about other people's experience or perception like usual, but rather focused on the movement of the coaster. I was a parrot, soaring freely in the sky after being let out of my cage.

 

The train stopped, and I knew I required at least a few minutes of refreshing my mind and bringing it back to reality before returning to the world of barriers, where I was no longer an adventurous parrot. This was a park that I visited every year before the pandemic. I rode the parrot coaster at least 25 times, once riding the roller coaster eleven times in a row, stubbornly ignoring nausea. Ever since the norms against my introversion emerged, I had forgotten how it felt not to think  about critical comments from my peers; experiencing that on a chaotic rollercoaster was something I had never imagined possible.

 

Beyond opening the door for more rollercoaster rides as I aged, this experience highlighted the importance of my unnoticed lack of freedom. In a society where I struggle to conform to social norms, the value of freedom is often neglected on the other side of a railing. Staying curious about the exhilaration of being on a rollercoaster unlocked a realm of peace, meditation, and most importantly, freedom. Freedom isn’t just limited to physical liberation, I realised, but rather the ability to break free from the barriers that we impose on ourselves. It’s about finding the courage and confidence to step into the unknown. The unknown was like the temporary reality that the rollercoaster paved and reconnected me to my authentic self. 

 

Perhaps the beauty of sitting on a rollercoaster with 12 different people is the sense of community. We all enter the line with similar thoughts or emotions: anticipation, excitement, and a hint of fear. Once the ride ascends, all emotional barriers are overcome by a shared feeling of exhilaration and joy. It matters not where we come from, or where we go after the ride. Rather, what matters is the shared thrill and sense of affinity that emerges from facing our fears together. Knowing that, there is no sense of shame, judgement, or need for conformity due to the unique bond that transcends societal expectations and brings us together in an ephemeral moment of unification.

 

The day I stepped into a rollercoaster wasn't only a day of new experiences at amusement parks; it was a day of realisation that long-desired freedom lies in front of us once we break a barrier. It was a day of shared nervous anticipation, exhilaration, and liberation among the trembling bodies of other people who are similarly embracing the chaotic twists with a courageous spirit.