As the ceiling began crashing down around me, I reached for the hand beckoning me from above. I screamed as I attempted to grasp my rescuer's too-distant fingertips, afraid I would be buried alive.
When my roommates woke me, my heart was still beating rapidly as I gripped the center beam of the cabin we were sharing, my body hanging maybe two feet off the floor. It was the summer of 2009 and we were at Yosemite for a family reunion — a family I would marry into several years later. I was sharing the space with two other young women I didn't know well and making a terrific impression.
As I hung from the ceiling, one of them held my waist while the other turned on the light. As everything slid back into focus, I knew, instantly, I wasn't in any danger. Embarrassed from my late-night theatrical display, I dropped off the beam and scurried back to bed.
The three of us erupted into laughter from the shock of it all.
