When the void brushes against us: why, when standing before a precipice, can the mind imagine the fall?
It is late afternoon, and the mountain seems to hold onto the last light. The low-angled sun skims the rock faces, slips into the crevices, and illuminates the outlines of the peaks for a few brief moments. The trail narrows. Beyond the edge, the valley plunges into a depth that the eye cannot truly fathom. A light breeze rises from below. Everything seems still.
And yet the body is alert. A person approaches cautiously. They look out over the void, and—without seeking it—a very brief, almost foreign thought crosses their mind: I could jump.
It is not an intention. It contains neither pleasure nor relief. It is merely a flash. And immediately, fear sets in. The legs stiffen. The torso recoils. A hand reaches for the rock. The heart races. Then, when the danger is already a few centimeters farther away, a question arises that is perhaps even more unsettling than the image itself: Why did I think that? Does it mean that, somewhere inside me, I want to do it?
Not necessarily. There is a psychological phenomenon known as the High Place Phenomenon. In common parlance, it has become the call of the void, the “call of the void”; the French call it l’appel du vide.
It can happen when standing at the edge of a cliff, on a bridge, or looking out from a balcony or the terrace of a building. For a moment, the image of jumping appears. Sometimes along with a sudden fear of losing control.
But the essential point is precisely this: imagining does not mean desiring.
And desiring, in turn, does not mean deciding. Not everything that crosses our minds belongs to us in the same way. Consciousness is not a perfectly tidy room into which only thoughts we’ve chosen enter. It is much more restless, creative, and unpredictable.
It anticipates possibilities, constructs images, simulates dangers, and produces associations we did not invite. Some pass without leaving a trace. Others frighten us precisely because they seem so far removed from who we feel we are.
In clinical psychology, we speak of intrusive contents: ideas, images, or impulses that appear without being deliberately sought out. When they are perceived as foreign, unwanted, and contrary to one’s own values, they are defined as egodystonic. Those who experience them, in fact, usually do not think: This is what I want.
The question is exactly the opposite: How is it possible that something like this came to mind?
And it is often precisely the fear provoked by that thought that shows us how far removed it is from our true will. Suffering can arise afterward, when we begin to scrutinize that fleeting thought as if it were hiding a secret truth.
SIf I thought about jumping, perhaps a part of me wants to do it. If I imagined the fall, perhaps I can no longer trust myself. It is within this doubt that fear can take root.
In 2012, Jennifer L. Hames, Jessica D. Ribeiro, April R. Smith, and Thomas E. Joiner Jr. published the first empirical study specifically dedicated to this phenomenon in the Journal of Affective Disorders. They involved 431 college students and discovered something important: the “call of the void” also appeared in people who had never reported suicidal thoughts. About half of those who had never considered suicide reported having experienced at least some aspect of this sensation.
This finding profoundly altered how that moment was interpreted. The mere appearance of the thought could not be considered proof of a hidden desire to die. The researchers then put forward an intriguing hypothesis.
Perhaps what we interpret as an impulse toward the void arises, at least in some cases, from something that is pushing us in exactly the opposite direction. When we approach a height, the body recognizes the risk even before we have time to put it into words. The legs tense up. Our posture changes.
We look for a foothold. We step back. Then consciousness—always hungry for explanations—steps in and tries to make sense of what just happened. Why did I pull back so abruptly?
And perhaps it interprets that protective reaction as the most immediate image of danger: Because I could have jumped. Thus, what for a moment seems like an attraction to the precipice might actually be the echo of a movement designed to protect us. Not an invitation to death. But, paradoxically, a warning from life. It’s a fascinating hypothesis, perhaps even a reassuring one. But precisely because science requires caution, it should not be turned into a certainty. The 2012 study was based on questionnaires and could not directly demonstrate the mechanism that produces the experience. Even today, we do not have experiments capable of definitively confirming the idea of the “misinterpreted safety signal,” nor do we have neuroimaging studies that have identified a specific brain circuit associated with the pull of the void.
In 2020, Tobias Teismann, Julia Brailovskaia, Svenja Schaumburg, and André Wannemüller expanded the study to include two groups of German participants: 276 adults recruited online and 94 patients with a clinically significant fear of flying. Once again, the experience proved to be far from rare. Nearly 60 percent of the first group and 45 percent of the second reported experiencing it. And, once again, it occurred frequently even in people who had never reported suicidal ideation. But an important nuance also emerged.
In the online sample, the phenomenon was more frequent in the presence of suicidal ideation, depressive symptoms, and greater anxiety sensitivity. The two, therefore, are not mutually exclusive. The “call of the void” can occur in those who have no desire to die at all, but it can also arise within the context of deeper psychological distress. And this is where clinical practice must replace simplistic interpretations. A single thought is not a diagnosis. Context matters. What matters is how often it recurs. What matters is what the person feels when it arises. Above all, what matters is the relationship the person establishes with that thought. Sensitivity to anxiety can help us understand why some people become particularly distressed.
When faced with heights, the body speaks in its own immediate language: the heart races, breathing changes, the legs tense up, and a sensation of instability or dizziness may arise. The original message is simple: Watch out. But those who are particularly attuned to their internal signals may quickly add another question: E What if I can’t control myself? The first thought may have lasted less than a second.
Doubt about its meaning, however, can last much longer. One then begins to observe every movement, to monitor one’s sensations, to seek reassurance, and to wait fearfully for that phrase to return. At that point, one no longer fears only the precipice. One fears oneself. Or, rather, one fears that part of the mind that, for an instant, seemed unfamiliar. It’s a profoundly human misunderstanding: to think that every thought in our consciousness must reveal a hidden truth about ourselves. But the mind isn’t a confessional. Sometimes it represents precisely what we fear most. A mother might be briefly struck by the image of dropping her child, while at the very same moment she holds him even more tightly.
A cautious driver might imagine for a second veering into the oncoming lane and immediately grip the steering wheel more tightly. A person waiting for a train might picture stepping forward instead of backward and immediately feel the need to move away from the edge of the platform. These experiences aren’t perfectly comparable, and it would be wrong to lump them all into a single explanation. But they have something in common: the mind can envision a feared possibility precisely at the moment we wish to avoid it.
The most recent studies have continued to explore this gray area. In 2025, Lara Wiesmann, André Wannemüller, and Tobias Teismann studied 612 patients with a clinically significant fear of flying. Nearly 43 percent reported being familiar with the phenomenon. The experience was linked, to varying degrees, to certain psychological traits and states of vulnerability, including neuroticism, suicidal ideation, insecurity in social relationships, lower self-efficacy, and lower self-esteem. But even in this case, the researchers reiterated a key point:the presence of the “call of the void,” considered on its own, does not allow us to infer a secret desire for death.
Also in 2025, Zahra Asgari, Azam Naghavi, Ali Abbasi, Andrea Ertle, Lara Wiesmann, and Tobias Teismann observed the phenomenon in two groups of Iranian adults. Between 39 and 62 percent reported having experienced it. Its intensity was also found to be related to obsessive-compulsive symptoms. This does not mean, of course, that anyone who feels the pull of the void suffers from obsessive-compulsive disorder. A more cautious interpretation is another. An involuntary thought can become painful when it ceases to be merely a thought and we begin to regard it as a threat, a fault, or the revelation of a hidden desire. The difference between an occasional intrusion and something that warrants clinical attention does not depend solely on the content.
It depends on its persistence. On the distress it causes. On the space it occupies in daily life. On the growing need to control, avoid, or neutralize it. An image that appears and disappears may be part of the normal unpredictability of the mind. The same image, when it returns incessantly, causes suffering and forces a person to change their habits; it demands, instead, to be listened to more carefully.
In December 2025, Lara Wiesmann, Laura Melzer, and Tobias Teismann published in Frontiers in Psychiatry the first validation of the Call of the Void Scale, a tool designed to study the phenomenon in different situations: not only the thought of jumping from a high place, but also the image of driving a car into an obstacle or stepping in front of a train. The study, conducted on 476 adults, examined the frequency of these thoughts, their egodystonic nature, and the behaviors people engage in to feel safe again. It’s important to emphasize this: it is a research tool, not a diagnostic test. The research is still in its early stages. And perhaps its greatest merit is not that it has fully explained the phenomenon, but that it has given it a name.
For a long time, these experiences remained confined to the private sphere, because talking about them can be frightening. People fear being judged. Being considered unstable. Or, worse still, that someone might see in that thought a desire that we do not recognize at all. Knowing that other people have experienced that same vertigo does not eliminate the fear. But it can free it from shame.
From a neuroscientific perspective, we can reasonably place these episodes within the broader process through which the nervous system recognizes danger and prepares the body to respond. When facing a precipice, in fact, the brain must perform an extraordinary feat in a very short time: understanding where we are in space, assessing our balance, the distance from the edge, the position of our feet, what our eyes see, and what our body is sensing. It all happens almost simultaneously.
But it would be incorrect to go beyond what we currently know. We cannot pinpoint a single brain area as the seat of the “emptiness” sensation. We cannot attribute it to a particular neurotransmitter. We cannot yet describe a precise biological signature for it. The available research is primarily psychological and observational. It has not directly recorded what happens in the brain at the exact moment that sensation arises. The same caution is needed when discussing neuroimmunomodulation. We know that the brain, the autonomic nervous system, hormones, and the immune system are in constant communication, and that prolonged stress can alter attention, alertness, and emotional regulation.
But specific studies on the “call of the void” have not examined cytokines, inflammatory markers, stress hormones, or immune parameters. Directly linking these systems to the phenomenon would, at this point, mean going beyond the available evidence. And admitting what we do not yet know does not weaken science. It makes it more honest. Perhaps even more human. Because it teaches us to dwell alongside uncertainty without immediately filling it with seductive explanations.
However, a fundamental clinical distinction remains. Normalizing the “call of the void” does not mean underestimating suicide risk. A sudden thought—experienced with fear, felt as foreign, and followed by the instinct to move away from danger—is different from a persistent thought of death that is desired or accompanied by relief, intention, and concrete preparations. In the first case, the person may think: I don’t want to do it. It just scares me that it crossed my mind. In a suicidal crisis, however, the desire to die, the feeling that there are no longer any ways out, the search for a method, the formulation of a plan, or the concrete fear of no longer being able to protect oneself may all arise. No serious assessment can therefore be based on a single isolated statement. It is important to understand how long the thought persists, how frequently it recurs, whether it continues to be perceived as foreign, what emotions it triggers, and, above all, whether there is a genuine intention to act.
When a thought of death becomes persistent, begins to be actively pursued, brings relief, or is accompanied by planning, it is necessary to seek help without waiting for the suffering to become even more difficult to bear. Even speaking openly is a form of care. Asking someone if they are thinking about suicide does not plant that idea in their mind and does not, in and of itself, increase the risk. A clear, nonjudgmental question can instead create a space where what is frightening no longer has to remain hidden.
In the presence of immediate danger, the person should not be left alone, and appropriate assistance must be arranged promptly.
When, on the other hand, the pull of the void takes the form of an involuntary flash—devoid of desire or intention—it may be helpful to avoid subjecting it to endless questioning. You can try telling yourself: My mind has posed a danger. It is not giving me an order. Then take a step back. Feel your feet on the ground. Fix your gaze on something stable. Let your breath slowly find its own rhythm.
The rock. The path. The railing. A nearby voice. Something real. Trying to forcefully banish the image or demanding of yourself absolute certainty that it will never return can, on the contrary, make it even more significant. Not everything that crosses our consciousness must be fought against. Some inner presences can be recognized for what they are. And then let go.
Psychological freedom does not consist solely of having reassuring thoughts. It also consists of knowing that we are not obligated to identify with every thought that crosses our minds.
It is still late afternoon. The mountain holds the sun’s last reflections while shadows slowly rise from the valley. The person who had approached the precipice has taken a step back. She rests a hand on the rock. It is cold. Rough. Real. Beneath her, the abyss remains immense and silent.
But that sudden thought has already passed. The path, however, is still there. Perhaps the void never called to us. Perhaps, in that dizzying moment, while we believed we had glimpsed something dark within ourselves, the exact opposite had happened. It was the body that was retreating. It was fear that was protecting us. It was life that, without needing words, took us by the shoulders.
And with firmness, almost with gentleness, it drew us back toward itself.
