Flight to Victoria

If you’ve ever flown in an airplane, you might remember the sensations that come with takeoff: the acceleration pushing your back deep into the seat, the little stomach drop when you tip up off the ground. Then there’s this moment when gravity seems to catch on to what you’re attempting, and tugs you down despite your forward momentum, tries to keep you where you were. It only lasts a few seconds, then it relinquishes control, and it’s like you’re floating, strapped down though you are.

Only that split second. But how many times has my life had the same beautiful momentum, and I’m holding my breath, heart in mouth, because it all feels impossible— and then that one force that feels inevitably powerful tries to hold you back? How many times did I give into it? How many times did I let those second guesses ground me? Why does one negative voice weigh more than my cheerleaders? What if I held on, strapped in, and waited for it to pass? It might only be a few seconds, and then I’d be at cruising altitude, looking at the peaks of the mountains arrayed before me.

Because I’m already in the air. Maybe I just need to trust the pilot and ride it out.

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