You know what I love about flying? The first time I took off in an airplane was shortly before I turned 6 months old. I was flying from North Carolina to Denver for my Uncle Bud’s wedding. Not that I remember any of this in detail, but I do know that ever since then I’ve been in love with travel. There were a multitude of reasons, and not just your typical love for new destinations. Rather, I loved the entire process, not just the destination, but the process of getting there. I am in love with flight. I suppose you could say it’s in my blood – my Grandfather and Uncle on my Father’s side were both pilots, and my Father was a navigator of F-4 Phantom fighter jets with the US Air Force. But my love of flying goes beyond just the thrill of flight or the science of it. I love airports, I’m fascinated by the systems that operate them, I’m enthralled with the sense of freedom, and every time I look out over the clouds I feel I’ve caught a glimpse of something grander than I could ever possibly imagine. Even more exciting are the people you can meet when, entirely by chance, you’re assigned a seat next to someone who can change your life after only a short conversation. Millions of people coming and going with endless possibilities and somehow, if you’re lucky, you’ll find just the right person.

    But there was always something more to it, something greater than any of that combined. Any time I feel depressed, any time I feel that things aren’t going well, I suddenly feel the urge to fly. I never thought it was an escape mechanism, but instead was some instinct I didn’t understand. I’ve finally figured it out.

    I’m not one for routines; I have no daily rituals beyond checking my email and, of course, personal hygiene. I shun that form of restriction and mundane repetition. But there’s one routine in my life that I’ve always held dear, despite not knowing of its existence. The day before I leave for any flight, it hardly feels like I’m going anywhere at all. I’m in a state of travel denial. But the night before? That’s when it really hits me; the nervousness. I start to wonder about all the horrible things that could happen, all the ways this could end very badly.

    Despite all of that, this is my favorite part. Why? Because it makes me take stock in my life. In order to calm my nerves, I think of the worst possible outcome. And as macabre as it is, I ask myself what it would be like if I were to die the next day. Would I be satisfied with the way I’ve led my life? Would I have any regrets? And if so, are those regrets manageable? Would I feel that the world would be better for having had me in it? Sure, I’d be sad that I’d miss out on so much, that a promising life had been cut short. But all in all, if I can say to myself that if I were to die the next day I’d be a contented ghost, then my nerves are calmed and I can go about my business without fear.

    There’s something calming about this kind of self awareness, even though the thought of death still isn’t a welcome one. But I think that’s what I love about the process of flying – it makes me think, it makes me evaluate my life. And by sizing up my relatively short little life thus far, it provides a new outlook on the future. It’s like getting a nice little pat on the back that says, hey, you aren’t such a bad person after all. In fact, I think I’m quite peachy. Not perfect, certainly not, but not half bad. And after a particularly rough week, any pats on the back I can get are happy things.

    So tomorrow, at 6:11AM (ugh) I will be taking off for San Francisco, California, with a quick stop in Dallas along the way. After an unexpected yet pleasantly reassuring phone call from Stephen a few moments ago, I’m confident about boarding that plane. And if the worst were to happen? I’ve done what I can with the world with the time given to me. And if the best were to happen? Then I have a fresh, clean slate to work from, and a newer outlook on life. There’s nothing better than that. So watch out San Francisco, cause here I come!