Trying to See What's Coming and Learning to Surrender Control
I’ve always been an anxious flyer. The one who claps when the plane lands? That’s me. I’ve flown across the ocean and back, and still…takeoff tightens my chest, turbulence rattles me, and landing feels like a miracle every time.
After nearly a year of not traveling, I found myself back on a plane again. This time in an aisle seat - a recent compromise made with my husband. He gets the space he needs, I shed my forever-middle-seat-flyer identity, and we both get a little breathing room. Plus, it's harder for him to steal my snacks.
Being in the aisle seat means I had to do that subtle lean, trying to sneak a glimpse out of someone else’s window. Unfortunately, every single shade in the row was down. Even as we began our descent, not one person around me seemed to think it might be comforting, maybe even a little exciting, to look outside.
Naturally, I leaned over to Vlad in the aisle next to me and said, “It’s so freaking annoying that no one opens their window. Don’t you want to know when we’re about to land?” Totally unfazed, his eyes were locked on the tv screen, immersed in the end of Game 1 of Celtics vs. Knicks headed into overtime. 🏀
There we were, side by side, both filled with anticipation. I'm anxiously tracking the moment our plane would land, while he is feeling the rush of the final seconds of a playoff basketball game.
In that moment I was reminded of something I'm still learning: the physical sensations of anxiety and excitement in the body are nearly the same. The difference? The meaning we attach to it.
This flight taught me (again) that control is often an illusion. Sometimes there's nothing we can do to influence the outcome of a situation or circumstance, no matter what we do or how hard we try. But we can influence our experience of it.
We can control the story we tell ourselves in the waiting.
Whether it’s the end of a basketball game or the final descent of a flight, we all experience moments where we don’t know what’s next. Flying, like life, is a practice of surrendering, and reminding ourselves that even when we can't see what's ahead, we can trust that we'll get there.
And maybe that's all we need to buckle up and prepare for takeoff again.