Lately, there’s been an onslaught of news about plane crashes. Not just an isolated incident- a strange pattern. Different countries, different airlines, different reasons, but the same quiet fear that rises every time.

I love flying. I used to hate airplanes, terrified for my life, but over time, they became an integrated part of my life, almost unnoticeable. Even now, I sit by the window and watch the planes take off at the airport. Flying at 3 am gives me a rush of excitement, and sometimes, I stare up at one floating through the clouds above me and wish I was on that plane, rather than in the middle of History.

Now, when I hear about a crash, I can feel my stomach drop. Headline after headline. What’s terrifying is the randomness, the defiance of all statistics that say flying is the safest mode of transport. Boarding a flight thinking you would land in a couple hours- and never making it.

It’s that quiet fear that hits harder. Not in the way that horror movies scare you. It’s that little twinge of anxiety that runs through my head when I’m buckling my seatbelt and the flight takes off and turns at a sharp angle, when it shakes because of turbulence, especially when I hear a loud noise and my brain falls into a moment of intense panic. Landing feels like sweet relief.

It strikes me in nightmares, sometimes. Someone texting “I’ll call you when I land”, only for that person to see a ball of smoke and flames on the news a mere couple of seconds, minutes, hours later. Something about knowing that a life can fall apart so fast is a confronting thought.

For me, looking out an airplane window at night, watching the city shining beneath me, floating through the clouds and finding myself somewhere new will always be magical. Maybe one day, flying will feel completely safe again. That fear is one that sticks, present in the back of my mind now, surfacing in fleeting moments.

All I can do is say “I love you” more. Hug people longer. Acknowledge and appreciate those around me. Whether it’s a flight, or a war, or a sickness, you never know when the people around you abruptly vanish, or whether you will too. At least, for this time, we should revel in these living moments, enjoy what we have, and remember to be compassionate, holding space in our hearts for those who didn’t make it.

Somewhere above the wreckage, somewhere above the fear, the sky still holds light. Promise. And hope.

Signing off…