Icarus Laughed as He Fell...

Naked Lessons from Icarus

You know the story of Icarus — the cocky kid with wax and feathers strapped to his back, the one who thought he could outfly his own limits. His father warned him: not too high, not too low. But what kid listens when the sky’s calling his name?

So he soared. Higher. Hotter. Freer. Until the sun kissed his wings and melted his masterpiece.

But here’s the part I like to imagine differently. As Icarus tumbled from the heavens, feathers swirling like snow, I think he laughed.

He laughed, not in madness, but in defiance. He knew he’d flown where no one else had dared. He’d tasted glory. He’d seen the world from a height the grounded never would. And yeah, the fall came hard. It always does. But he didn’t regret it. How could he?

Here's something I'd like to add to the story: if he’d stayed earthbound, the salt from the sea would’ve corroded the feathers anyway. Playing it safe would have destroyed him just the same — just slower, quieter, and without the view.

I’ve had my own Icarus week — a few too many singed feathers, a few ideas that came crashing down in smoke. I flew too close to the sun, thinking maybe I could pull off the impossible. And when it didn’t work? I laughed, too. Because I tried.

Now I’m down here, gathering feathers, shaping new wings. That’s what life is - a series of takeoffs and rebuilds. You don’t stop flying because you fell. You start again because you remember how good it felt to soar.

So yeah, I crashed this week. But I’m already reaching for the wax.

I hope you spend this week building your wings and soaring.

Postscript: I know that Icarus' father, Daedalus, made the wings. I think most of us are at an age where we don't have a Daedalus to craft wings for us, so we have to rely on our own talents. That's why I framed the story the way I did.