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I can feel Andreas, my Argentinian jumping partner, tightening the harness around me as I watch my new friend, Matt, opening the side of the plane. I feel euphoric, my blood pounding in my ears. He swings his legs out. I blink. He's gone. My turn. 'Last minute check,' Andreas yells over the roar of the ascending plane. My heart skips a beat; my legs are hanging twelve thousand feet in the sky and he's still checking the equipment? And then we're free falling. It's terrifying, exhilarating, comforting, familiar. I’m twenty years old and I’m having an age-related crisis; a quarter life crisis, if you will. Call me Peter Pan because I’m afraid of growing up. The responsibilities don’t phase me, I’m terrified, deathly terrified, of getting old and boring. I watch my parents trudging to their nine to five jobs, my grandparents who have packed away their campervan for good and my uncle who hasn’t been abroad in over four years. Is this what middle age looks like? With no time to think, I jumped on a plane bound for New Zealand, determined to maximise my youth while I still had it. The air is rushing up to meet me, so I don’t feel like I’m falling, but suspended in the sky, pressing pause, being present. I relish my forty seconds of free fall and take in the picture-perfect landscape below me. I see my new hometown of Queenstown, nestled at the feet of the Remarkables mountain range. The buzzing city that I am accustomed to is nothing more than a sprawling town from up here. I think of all the tourists, all the excited backpackers who are following winter around the world. With more hostels than hotels, and more pubs than restaurants, the city is set up for us. Throwing my arms wide to balance against the air, I want to hug this haven that I have found myself in. Living here, albeit as short lived as it is, ‘fills my (happiness) bucket,’ as the Kiwis say. The longhaired men and barefoot children are some of the most upbeat and welcoming people that I have ever met. They’re the kind of people who take off their gum boots before entering a grocery store, so as not to drag in the dirt. I smile at their thoughtfulness and laugh at the sight of them buying milk in their socks. ‘Are you ok?’ Andreas breaks my train of thought. A delighted laugh escapes my mouth, before he tugs the string and the parachute jerks us upright. His watch reads two thousand feet above the ground. All kinds of colours saturate my retinas; the silver of the lake, the navy purple mountains with their white sprinkling of snow and the lush green valley directly below us. I hike every day to see these views, but nothing compares to looking down on the mountains, the clouds within reach. The Department of Conservation has highlighted and signposted every ‘tramp’ (hike) in the country, so even I, a solo, inexperienced tramper (hiker) can immerse myself safely in their countryside. The mountains are increasing in size as we approach the earth. Around me, bodies shower down preparing to land. I have spent my winter borrowing locals’ dogs to accompany me on hikes, tasting the heavenly gift that is sushi and exploring miners’ tunnels. I have bathed in geothermal pools, felt a 5.6 magnitude earthquake and met lifelong friends with whom I shared a bunkbed. My anxiety is fading and I’m falling in the best way possible. I don’t have to be in my twenties to swim in a waterfall plunge pool or jump out of an aeroplane. When I am forty, you will catch me taking overnight buses and tackling snow-capped mountains at dawn. I’m happy to leave Neverland. I’m not Peter Pan, I was a Lost Boy and I’m excited to go home. I lift my legs and feel the ground running away from under my calves. The green winter grass tickles the palm of my hands and, like that, I land.