There is something sacred about boarding a plane. No matter how many times I’ve flown—whether across oceans, over mountains, or just a few states away—I always find myself pausing to reflect. Maybe it’s the liminal space that exists between takeoff and landing, or the fact that flying demands a kind of surrender. You’re literally not in control, and yet somehow, it always feels like a reset button for my soul.
As I sit here waiting for departure, I’m overwhelmed with a mix of gratitude, disbelief, and a quiet resolve. I think about the life I’ve lived so far—how often I’ve packed bags not just with clothes but with memories, hopes, grief, and sometimes heartbreak. I’ve lived in countries most people only dream of visiting. I’ve loved, lost, stumbled, rebuilt. Some moments have been beautiful, others have been complete shit. But still—this life? It’s been mine. And I wouldn’t trade it.
For so long, I feel like I was just reacting—surviving one chapter after another. I let circumstances shape me, mold me, and sometimes derail me. But now, something is shifting. I’m not just boarding planes—I’m boarding intention. I’m no longer reacting. I’m choosing.
I’m choosing to live with purpose. With presence. With my eyes wide open and my heart—while still bruised in places—beating strong and clear.
Maybe the last 40 years were for becoming. Maybe the next chapter is for being. And if that means letting go of everything I thought I was supposed to be, or all the expectations that were never really mine, then so be it.
Here’s to flying forward—not just in the air, but in life.
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