Your life is a flight—your only one.
You begin white-knuckled. Everything around you is a shock. The light, the roar, the disorientation. Ascending, every small shake seems threatening.
It takes a while to reach your cruising altitude—maybe by your thirties? Your forties? Sure, along the way there will be jostling—once in a while you might need to buckle up. But up here, you’re stabilized. You know yourself. You know your surroundings. You know your flight plan.
Then comes the point where you don’t need the captain to inform you your descent has begun. You already know. On the way down, you hope for minimal turbulence—because you know others who have crash landed. Then a soothing voice says, “we hope you’ve enjoyed your flight.” We hope so, too.
On touchdown, you feel both sad and nostalgic. You think of the good friends and bad times. Either way, it will all soon be behind you.
You taxi for a little bit, and then…there it is. You’ve arrived.
You’ve reached the terminal.
