Hopping off the Metrolink train at L.A. Union Station, my friend and I perched on a bench, waiting for the Flyaway shuttle to whisk us to LAX. It was an unusually cold day in SoCal, our breath visible in the drizzly air. As we waited, we started talking about being so close to going home for spring break — both of us international students.
A while back, we were faced with the questionable decision to fly back across the world for just over a week. Was it worth it to endure 11 to 15 hours in the air (if you’re lucky enough to snag a direct flight), only to be home for such a short time, battling jet lag? But after all, home is home, right?
“I think I needed this, honestly, to recharge,” my friend said. I nodded slowly, but my feelings were more complicated. Going home stirred something uneasy in me — a feeling I usually avoided thinking about until I was on the plane.
When the bus finally pulled up at the airport, we said our goodbyes. As I navigated TSA alone, the usual pre-flight jitters crept in. People who know me might call me a plane crash fanatic, an identity I picked up as a way to cope with my fear of flying. I thought learning about the nuts and bolts of all the ways a flight could go wrong would prove just how rare catastrophic errors are. Instead, it only made me more aware that while these disasters are unlikely, they’re still possible — and that lingering possibility haunted the flight I was about to board.
I haven’t always been a nervous flyer. When I was younger, I frequently flew from Shanghai to Taiwan with my family during holidays and my dad was the one who silently bore the weight of flight anxiety, his expression deadpan. He wouldn’t speak until we touched down; later, he told me it was the only way he could deal with how nervous flying made him.
I was still too young to notice, too focused on the grape-flavored Hi-Chews my mom gave me during takeoff to help with my ears popping. But over time, I’ve started spotting traces of my father in my behavior, especially after obsessively researching plane crashes following a devastating crash in China in 2022.
Now, despite knowing that planes are the safest form of travel, I can’t stop imagining every possible scenario where things could go wrong. Like the plane stalling from ice accumulation on its wings. Or a mid-air collision with another aircraft due to faulty ATC communication. Or a decades-long maintenance issue soundlessly waiting to turn into a tragedy.
As I found my seat on the plane, I started my usual pre-flight ritual: googling airline safety records, memorizing brace positions and triple-checking that I knew how to inflate a life vest. But even with all this preparation, my mind spiraled with fear. It’s ironic: I know too much, and yet here I am, with no choice but to fly.
Once in the air, the plane’s turbulence hit almost immediately. I clenched the armrests, breath catching in my throat. My mind was jumping from idea to idea: Were my feelings more than just a nervousness for flying, and instead something that always surfaced when I was on my way home?
The plane’s instability layered itself over an already shaky emotional landscape — I was returning to a place where love and tension coexisted in uncomfortable ways. It wasn’t just the plane’s unsteadiness that unsettled me, but the weight of the emotions tied to this flight.
“Was it worth it to endure 11 to 15 hours in the air (if you’re lucky enough to snag a direct flight), only to be home for such a short time, battling jet lag?“
When my mother texted me in February asking if I wanted to go home for spring break, a part of me screamed “of course,” while the other part hesitated for days. Now that I’m in college, although I do miss home at times, the thought of actually going back and staying with my parents evokes a sense of anticipation.
I first left China over seven months ago, longing for freedom from a society and household that, to me then, was steeped in nothing but misogyny and bigotry. As a queer woman, all I wanted was out.
In many ways, I got what I wanted: space to be myself, to speak freely, to exist without shrinking. But I didn’t realize how heavy that freedom would feel when it meant leaving parts of myself and my family behind, and how each return now comes with a strange mix of comfort and confrontation.
My mother, in particular, sees a version of me that no longer exists. Despite knowing about my progressive beliefs, she clings to the image of the “sweet, traditional daughter” I used to be — or perhaps the version of me she always wished I were (cue “Pink Pony Club”!) This idealized version of me creates tension between us whenever I visit, leading to inevitable arguments.
So why is it that, after each visit, as I fly through 16 time zones, I find myself missing my mother’s presence?
On the flight back to California after winter break, I sobbed to “Lady Bird” (2017), thinking about the familiar tension and longing that defined my relationship with my mom. I looked out the window, realizing this is what flying feels like to me: suspended, disconnected, caught between departure and arrival, reality and memory. Always liminal. Always shadowed by the fear of crashing. Like figures in the clouds: disappearing and reappearing, again and again, just as my mother sees me.
As the plane leveled off at its cruising altitude, I realized that this ride was no different from the emotional turbulence I feel every time I go home. The ups and downs, the unpredictability — it all mirrored my relationship with my family and the complicated feelings that surface with each return.
The seatbelt sign finally turned off, and the flight attendants began their drink service. But before I could relax, the turbulence returned, catching everyone off guard. This time, though, I was ready.
Turbulence still unsettles me, but I’m learning to accept that I’m not always in control of what happens around me. The same goes for navigating the complex emotions around home. It’s not about “fixing” everything, but about accepting that things will be rocky — and that’s okay as long as I understand my own emotions. Over time, the distress of leaving and returning begins to settle, much like how turbulence and my fear of flying eventually calm as we progress through the flight.
I drifted off for the rest of the flight. When I woke up, the cabin lights were on, signaling our descent into Shanghai. My parents met me at the airport, and as we exchanged chatty greetings, I noticed that this time, my mother’s grip on my arm felt a little looser — maybe a sign that she was beginning to accept that the idealized version of me she clings to is fading.
Or maybe I was the one changing, slowly learning that my identity and my relationship with her could coexist without suffocating either of us, held together by something steady and unspoken: family ties.
Back at home, collapsing in the comfort of my childhood bed, I reminisced on how I survived yet another plane ride and texted my friends, “I didn’t crash!” — the kind of joke I could only make in jest once I wasn’t afraid of jinxing it anymore.
Maybe conquering the fear of flying isn’t just about trusting the plane; it’s about making peace with the complicated reality of home. Each visit shapes me in new ways, for better or worse. It turns out that during this brief spring break visit, I noticed a shift — I wasn’t as anxious to be back. Conversations with my parents felt more like banter than battles, and I realized that I didn’t need to turn every disagreement into friction. Maybe I could offer a new perspective without triggering a fight.
No matter how far I travel, my home and family will continue to shape me. Whether I’m reflecting on feminism at my women’s college, sitting quietly with my parents in the car or feeling the jolt of a bumpy descent onto the runway, these ties, complicated as they may be, will always be with me. The turbulence doesn’t go away, but I’m gradually learning how to ride through it.
Rochelle Lu SC ’28 is from Kaohsiung, Taiwan, and Shanghai, China. Her advice: In the event of emotional impact, assume the brace position, take a deep breath and keep an open mind. Secure your own well-being before assisting others. The nearest exit may be behind you, but growth is always ahead.
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