Lost in Transit

Travel has always been a mix of excitement and exhaustion for me. Packing lists. Airport coffee. The strange feeling of being in-between places.

But this most recent trip home? It felt different.

It was my first time flying since losing more of my sight.

And if I'm being honest… it was terrifying.

We had reached out to the airline ahead of time for assistance. We did everything "right." We made the call. Asked the questions. Trusted the system.

The assistance never came.

And suddenly I was navigating both TPA and DTW alone — large, loud, overwhelming airports — without my vision and without the support we had arranged.

It was horrible.

The anxiety wasn't subtle. It was loud and physical. My heart raced. My breathing tightened. Every echoing announcement felt like it was directed at me. The crowds felt bigger. The spaces felt wider. The unknowns felt endless.

Airports are chaotic even on a good day. Add limited sight and the fear of getting lost or turned around and it becomes something else entirely.

I was incredibly overwhelmed at the prospect of navigating all of it alone.

And yet — in the middle of the chaos — there were moments of grace.

My daughter called and stayed on the phone, talking me through directions and calming my spiraling thoughts. Her steady voice grounded me when everything else felt unstable.

My favorite son-in-law went above and beyond to locate me once I landed. He didn't just pull up to the curb. He came inside. He searched. He found me. And he walked me safely to their car.

There is something about being walked to safety that undoes you in the best way.

And then… the reason for the trip.

My daughter's baby shower.

Watching her — glowing, surrounded by friends and family — celebrating the upcoming arrival of her baby boy. Watching her step fully into motherhood in this new season.

It filled me in ways I don't have words for.

I got to spend time with Number One and Lamb — two of my everyday people during the other three seasons of the year. I've missed them terribly. When they aren't woven into my daily rhythm, I feel it.

I helped the soon-to-be parents prepare a few things for baby's arrival. Folding tiny clothes. Organizing. Checking items off to-do lists.

Feeling needed always warms my heart — being invited into preparation — being trusted — knowing you still have something to give.

Travel, for me right now, is both loss and love.

It is grief over what my body can no longer do easily.

It is humility in needing help.

It is fear of spaces that used to feel simple.

But it is also connection.

It is family showing up.

It is being wrapped in voices that steady you and arms that protect you.

And then, after the emotional high and the physical toll, I come back home — to my Hubs. The man who wraps me up in the kind of embrace that says, You're safe now.

Travel stretches me. Sometimes more than I want. Sometimes more than feels fair.

Even when the journey is disorienting, I am never walking it alone.

There are daughters who call.

Sons-in-law who search.

Grandbabies who wait.

And a husband whose arms are always home.

And that makes even the hardest travel worth it.