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How to Conquer Your Fears By Thinking Like a Navy Pilot

My father-in-law, a Vietnam vet, taught me that you can’t escape the things that terrify you. So lean into them instead

Eric Spitznagel,

AARP

Published November 11, 2025

an illustration shows a navy pilot in combat, looking to his left, watching a missile fly past his fighter jet

“Steer toward the missile.” A Vietnam-era pilot’s trick becomes a modern mantra for facing everyday fear.

Ryan Inzana

I’m somewhere in the mountains of North Carolina, and I’m pretty sure I’m going to die.

Not because we’re in real peril. I’m just lost. The GPS in our car went dark, and my wife and I decided — romantically, foolishly — to keep driving without it.

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It felt like a memo from the universe: Here’s your chance to be a grownup again. Trust that not knowing exactly where you are doesn’t automatically mean doom.

In times like this, I borrow a steadier voice than the one in my head — my father-in-law, Jim. When he recounts war stories, his refrain is: “I wasn’t afraid. I was just scared sh**less.”

The author’s father-in-law, Jim Lichtenwalter, is shown in a black and white photo, posing on the deck of the CV-61 U S S Ranger

The author’s father-in-law, naval aviator Jim Lichtenwalter, 22, on the deck of the CV-61 USS Ranger.

Courtesy of Jim Lichtenwalter

He lives with my wife’s mom in Florida behind a screen porch that hums with cicadas and Radio Margaritaville. My wife and I were driving to see him when the GPS died.

Jim enlisted in the Navy in 1967, and during his 20-year military career, he flew 150 combat missions in Vietnam. He’s seen some things — and usually tells us about them during our visits.

Every story begins the same way, with a pilot muttering, “Oh shoot, I’m dead.” (Except they don’t say shoot.)

There’s the time Jim lost two inches of height after being ejected from a plane that was going down. Or that time he got so turned around during a mission, he looked out of his cockpit and saw trees above him.

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A sepia-toned photo shows the author’s father-in-law, Jim Lichtenwalter, smiling as he stands in front of his Corsair A-7 attack jet

Jim with his Corsair A-7 attack jet, the one that taught him to turn into trouble, not run from it.

Courtesy of Jim Lichtenwalter

One of his favorite stories is about dodging surface-to-air missiles.

“The problem with the A-7, especially when you’ve got 6,000 pounds of bombs on it, is that it’s not very maneuverable,” he explains, his head bobbing in the pool.

During his Vietnam missions, when he noticed a missile heading straight toward him, he knew that trying to outrun it would only end with him getting blown out of the sky.

“So I turned into it,” he says.

It has something to do with g-force, a measure of acceleration. “The missile is coming at you at Mach 1.5 or 2, so it has no G available,” Jim explains. (I didn't know what that meant, either.)

“It can’t turn worth a damn,” he continues. “If it’s pointing at you, it’s gotta go to you. But you have the ability to turn and out-G it.”

Translated for civilians: The missile is sprinting so fast it can’t corner. If you snap a hard turn toward it at the last moment, it overshoots. Like the Road Runner ducking under Wile E. Coyote, only with more math and less anvil.

“Your brain doesn’t want to do it,” Jim admits. “If you start thinking about it, you’ll make a mistake. Just aim for the damn thing.”

A photo shows Jim Lichtenwalter having fun with his grandson, Charlie, who is trying on his grandfather’s flight gear.

Jim with his grandson Charlie, who's trying on Grandpa’s flight gear.

Courtesy Eric Spitznagel

In my 20s and 30s, Jim’s stories were just that — stories. But in my 50s, they feel like instructions. I will never stare down a missile (knock on wood), but I face smaller versions all the time.

Some are real: I’ve delayed an annual checkup because I’m terrified of bad news. Some are ridiculous: Elevators make my knees jelly. What grown man avoids elevators?

For Veterans Day, it also feels right to say this out loud: The luxury of turning toward metaphorical missiles comes from people who did it for real. If you know a veteran, whether they flew, drove, sailed or stood watch, thank them. Jim would hate the fuss, but I’m making it anyway. He and his fellow pilots taught me more about everyday courage than any self-help book I’ve underlined.

Since that trip, the mantra’s crept into everything. I scheduled the physical I was avoiding. I took the elevator to the 10th floor and kept my eyes open the whole time. I asked a question in a meeting that needed asking. None of it felt heroic. All of it felt like steering.

closeup of a rusty dog tag with the text thank you veterans engraved in it, next to a flag of the United States

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I’m a coward by nature. But some days, in my head, I’m a Navy pilot. I pick a point on the horizon, I push the throttle, and when a missile shows up — because it always does — I take a breath and turn toward it.

Here are a few more pilot tricks to combat civilian fear:

Aviate, Navigate, Communicate. Pilots handle problems in that order. First, fly the plane — steady your breathing, plant your feet, drink water, take the one action that keeps you safe right now. Then figure out where you are and where you’re going. Only then loop in others. It beats panic-dialing three people while you’re still spiraling.
Chair-fly the moment. Pilots rehearse in their heads. Picture the conversation with your doctor or your boss. Hear yourself start with a sentence you can actually say out loud. Then picture the first curveball and your calm reply.
Pick a commit point. On a runway, there’s a speed after which you’re taking off no matter what. Give yourself a small, nonnegotiable commitment: “I will make the appointment by 3 p.m.” or “I will press the elevator button and ride one floor.”
Brief the abort. Courage isn’t recklessness. Decide in advance what makes you stop — “If my heart rate spikes, I pause and breathe for 60 seconds,” or “If the talk gets heated, I suggest a five-minute break” — and you’ll be braver because you’re not improvising safety.
Debrief without drama. Pilots review what went right and wrong without insults. After your “mission,” jot three lines: what worked, what didn’t, what I’ll do next time. Then close the notebook and live your life.

AARP essays share a point of view in the author’s voice, drawn from expertise or experience, and do not necessarily reflect the views of AARP.

Eric Spitznagel is a staff writer for AARP whose work has also appeared in Vanity Fair, Esquire, Rolling Stone, Men’s Health, Playboy and The New York Times Magazine. He has written several books, including Old Records Never Die: One Man’s Quest for His Vinyl and His Past. He and his wife live in Chicago (go Cubs) with their teenager, who is rapidly becoming a rock-guitar god, and a dog who eats literally everything.

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