Love, Chaos, and the Emotionally Supportive Ass

Flying has never been my thing. I’ve had lifelong issues with planes — the kind that involve a barf bag and deep regret. I’ve learned to control the nausea better as I’ve gotten older, but my nervous system still treats airports like a threat. I almost always have to poop at the airport, sometimes even on the plane. And nothing humbles you quite like three rounds of the poops mid-flight.

Traveling with my husband, who has PTSD, adds its own layer of challenge. He’s completely in control, but his nervous system runs hot in busy, unpredictable environments. Airports are a sensory minefield — bright lights, loud noises, constant motion, people brushing past. For someone whose brain is wired for threat detection, it’s like being dropped into a live-action video game with no pause button. You stay calm on the outside, but inside, every sense is dialed up to eleven.

We learned the hard way how to make it work for both of us. One of our earliest trips together, right after his spinal fusion surgery, was to Florida for my parents’ 50th anniversary celebration. The trip itself was wonderful. The airports? Our nemesis.

The flight home was doomed from the start. The terminal was packed, security took forever, and by the time we got to the gate, his nervous system was already overloaded. We planned to nap on the plane, but the kids behind us had other plans — they kicked our seats like caffeinated goats the entire flight.

That’s when we met Penny. She was sitting next to us, and without me saying a word, she seemed to understand exactly what was happening. Her dad was a POW. Her son, also a vet and now a minister, lives with PTSD. She started slipping cookies to the kids behind us and talking to us about her son, creating a calm bubble in the middle of the chaos. I tagged her in like the warrior she was and let her hold the line while I rested my stomach.

We’re still Facebook friends. I wasn’t at all surprised when I later saw photos of her house ratchet-strapped down during a hurricane. Of course she did. Penny is built for battle.

Another time, I left my phone in the rental car just before security. He was already maxed out from the airport noise and crowding, so I parked him at a restaurant to decompress — and it just happened to be next to a VA nurse. That’s the kind of awesome luck we have.

I sprinted back through security alone and told TSA, “My husband has PTSD. I need to get back to him.” They waved me right through. You don’t have to lie to get help — being honest about regulation needs works more often than you’d think.

We’ve also been trapped in shoulder-to-shoulder airport crowds, people bumping into him nonstop. In those moments, I stop, turn around, and say, “Just stare at my ass and don’t look at anything else.” And like a good soldier, he follows the booty beacon all the way to the gate.

We tell the gate agent every time: “We’ll be boarding last.” It avoids the cabin crush, and sometimes they check our carry-ons early so we don’t fight for bin space.

Over time, we’ve built an unspoken system: I’m the human bumper, clearing the path. He’s the calm center, focusing only on what’s right in front of him. We carry only what we need and make our way through the airport as fast as possible.

My niece gets it. She’s ten, autistic, and already knows flying is a sensory battlefield. Before her recent flight to Seattle, she called me nervous. She’d thought through every possible disaster — from smells and noises to emergency landings. I texted her this:

Flight Survival Letter

This flight? It’s not a joyride. It’s a mission. You don’t have to love it, you just have to get through it — and you can. Here’s how, using your senses like superpowers:

Eyes: Look at your book, your sketchpad, or something small. Make a tiny world with your eyes and stay in it.

Ears: Plug into your music. Pretend the people noises are part of a weird sound museum. You don’t have to like it — you just don’t have to join it.

Nose: Smell Bear. He smells like home, like safety, like not a plane. Planes smell like metal, old coffee, and humans. You’re allowed to hate that. Bear is your shield.

Mouth: Suck on a mint. Chew gum. Whisper to yourself: “I can freak out later. Right now, I’m flying.”

Hands: Grip your pencil. Doodle like you’re drawing your way off the plane. Twist your bracelets — play with the beads, count them, roll them. That’s not fidgeting. That’s survival magic. If it gets really intense, press your fingernails into your palms just a little. That quiet squeeze tells your brain: I’ve got me.

Mind: Annoying or overwhelming thoughts will try to flood in. Let them finish with one sentence:
“And then I landed, ate snacks, and was totally okay.”
That’s your power ending.

If someone tries to talk to you and you don’t want to? You don’t owe them anything. Put on your headphones. Stare into space. Let them wonder. You’re busy surviving.

Lean on your dad and your sister when it gets too much. That’s what they’re there for. Let them be your buffer.

You don’t have to feel brave. You just have to ride it out. You can melt into goo later. For now, be a puddle with earbuds, Bear, and a pen.

Bonus mission:
Find:
5 square things
4 blue things
3 soft things
2 shiny things
1 thing you love

Every time the people start peopling too hard, do it again.

You’ve got this. I love you.
See you on the other side of the sky. 💛✈️🧸

Sometimes you get lucky and find a Penny on your flight. Sometimes you have to be your own Penny. And sometimes, the best way through a crowded terminal is to keep your head down and follow the emotionally supportive ass in front of you.