Airplanes are curious places where we are suspended between the sky and the earth. We board, settle in, and surrender to something larger than ourselves. Conversations that might never happen on solid ground take shape in the air.
For introverted travelers like me, who navigate the world inwardly, travel experiences are often vastly different from those of our extroverted counterparts. We tend to avoid crowds and prefer slower, more reflective in-flight experiences. I use headphones to immerse myself in a movie or listen to a book so as not to be perceived by those surrounding me.
Without asking, the universe rearranged its stars to land me beside someone whose presence made silence feel less like hiding and more like sharing.
My dad had just died
During holiday travel, fate seated me next to a jovial, red-headed, red-bearded man in a baseball cap with a beaming smile. He asked if I was going home for the holidays. I said yes and shared that I would be with my mom for Christmas, the first without my dad. His smile didn’t disappear, but became small and soft. He nodded not with pity but with recognition.
He said softly, “I lost my dad a few years ago.”
In that moment, my fellow passengers and I transformed from strangers into a community bound by shared experiences. We were members of a club that no one had willingly sought to join.
From that point on, I forgot all about my headphones.
My seatmate listened as I shared how my dad had been immensely funny and made people laugh. He was always willing to listen to others’ views, reminding us that not everyone sees the world the same way. A love of travel came naturally to my father. So, when I think of him, I immediately go somewhere sunny and tropical in my mind.
He helped me talk about my grief
“Did your dad have a favorite place he liked to travel to?” he asked, eyes soft with interest.
“My dad preferred to travel to places where he could drink in the sunshine and the smiles of the local people. He wanted to understand people and their stories,” I shared. My dad would give you the hat off his head, and he did so for a boy in St. Lucia who admired his cap. With a grin, he handed it over to the child, who wore it like a crown, rather than a sun-faded souvenir.
From there, we discussed how grief changes your everyday life in ways you never imagined.
Then my seatmate said something that has helped me ever since that trip — “we become ambassadors for those who can no longer speak for themselves.”
The power of that thought reframed how I carry my grief to this day. Grief is a strange companion that follows you through empty family rooms, past favorite chairs, and onto airplanes. Every story we tell and memory we share keeps our loved ones alive.
People are expected to speak of their loved ones, but rarely of the ones they have lost. Not everything about death and loss needs to be buried in silence. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to come to this realization. More than anything, I needed permission to feel how difficult it had all been, and to treat myself accordingly.
Now I acknowledge the passengers beside me in case they need me
The stranger beside me helped in the absolute best way by simply being willing to listen. We think of travel as crossing geography, but more often, we’re crossing into new emotional territory.
Once we land, collect our bags, and merge into the stream of people heading toward taxis and loved ones, that brief connection disappears. It dissolves into the ordinary rush of arrivals.
Since that flight, I pause before putting on my headphones and make an effort to acknowledge the people around me. The vulnerability of being far from home or the rawness of facing personal challenges while traveling now encourages me to strive to be more authentic in my interactions.
Not every seatmate may want to talk, and most people might not even look up. But some will, and I will be ready to listen.
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