My heart sank to my feet. I was the only hand objecting.

We’re going up to the Gateway Arch since majority rules,” said the leader of the mission group I attended.

My group members cheered and eagerly urged the group to hurry into the building to purchase tickets while I stood motionless. My sweaty neck craned, looking at the tippy top of the St. Louis arch while the sun was at its highest. I clutched my camera in my hands.

Eventually I was removed from my shell-shock and dragged along by my boyfriend to catch up with the rest of my group. After our tickets were distributed, we were on our way into the building which would take us towards the elevator.

Fortunately for me, this building had a whole museum filled with aged, framed papers and ideas. One specific area was designated for the design of the St. Louis Arch and the architecture behind it. It eased my nerves being distracted by my group members and the steady flow of people in awe.

The fate timer ticked its last tock, and it was time to join the line of animated faces. We were handed a plastic red number while a lady with pulled-back blonde hair gave everyone a rundown. Anxiously, I ran my finger over every gash and scratch engraved on our number three film – I was anything but excited. My stomach felt like a home for angry butterflies.

Ponytail lady gave us a final chant and the elevator doors opened like a space shuttle awaiting for its spaceman. Our group split up, filling one row of pods. I chose an elevator pod with my boyfriend and the two identical twins from our group. My arm rigidly clutched my boyfriend's arm while the two members sat next to me fearless.

The elevator moved with a jerk, then gears turned angrily. Whatever I was feeling before was nothing in comparison to the intensified adrenaline racing in my bloodstream.

After a painstaking several minutes of the pod elevator hoisting us to the top, we made it. I took my first step off the elevator and saw the tough, boxy plastic windows patterned on both sides of me. I made the executive decision that I had to sit down. Immediately. The beating footsteps of strangers walking and admiring the view made me insane. I silently begged them to walk more softly in fear the floor might collapse.

The camera around my neck weighed on my shoulders, and I realized I wouldn’t be able to get anywhere close to the windows without feeling dizzy. It’s almost as if my boyfriend was in my head; he reached out his hand kindly and offered to take photos for me.

I agreed and gave him my camera, lecturing him about its expense. I watched him go from window to window, clicking and zooming while I sat as still as I could, thinking it might help keep the arch steady.

I thanked him generously as he handed back my camera riddled with various angled pictures. I happily clicked through them.

After what felt like hours in the arch, our time was up. I was never as happy as I was that day to get into a claustrophobic metal pod. While everyone regrouped, I was too busy soaking up the feeling of solid marble floor. I felt the safety of the ground rush through my feet.

As much as I feared the wriggling piece of sky metal, I was proud I could even get up into the air.

I smiled with leftover adrenaline and exuberance. I rejoined my rowdy youth group.

Laughs and jokes blended together: “Can we do it once more before we leave?”

My heart sank to my feet. I was the only hand objecting.