I was sandwiched between The Husband and another guy, a middle-aged man on my right next to the window who, between his carry-on briefcase and book at the ready, appeared to be a seasoned traveler. Also, he was wearing the introvert’s cloak of invisibility: no eye contact, no speaking. Well done, sir, I thought, and settled into my seat with my own book.

TH and I were flying out of a rainy Atlanta to a sunny Fort Lauderdale, from which we would drive two hours in a rented Mustang convertible (well done, TH) to convene with our New York crew for a friend’s wedding. But first, we had to get out of town, which occurred in several stages: first, diverting The Kid’s attention with a booster seat and tray of food and The Mom and Dad. Then, arriving to the airport and a delayed flight. We decided to make lemonade out of airline lemons (or sangria out of lemons, in my case) by hitting the airport bar at 10:30 am, thus kicking off our vacation a few hours early.

But the plane…there was the rub. I’ve written about it before, but it keeps getting worse: the more loaded my life becomes with people I love, the more fearful I am tempted to become. In a former life, I was an expert flier. That guy in Up in the Air TOTALLY would have gotten in the security line behind me. I was all-efficiency, ID out, shoes off, laptop separate. And then, on the plane? Aisle seat, ignoring safety spiel, no nerves. I took pride in my calm attitude, especially as it was absent elsewhere in my life. On a plane, though, I let go of life’s reins and just relaxed.

No more. As the plane reached cruising altitude and hit rough air, one hand gripped the seat and the other, TH. I felt the traveler beside me glance my way, felt his pity and wanted to scream: “I USED TO BE LIKE YOU! I USED TO BE GOOD AT THIS! AND THEN I HAD TO GO AND LOVE!” I wanted back onto the top rung of the traveling pecking order: the calm, cool, collected, ear buds in, cute bag at my feet, secretly smirking at the anxious Annies around me, who were all wide eyes and “Are we gonna crash?”-thinking. I wanted to be the Traveler Who Has It All Together.

I’m not her anymore.

Our descent into Fort Lauderdale occurred over Atlantic water, and I was only half-joking when I whispered to TH, “The pilot knows we can’t land in the ocean, right?” Which was when I realized it, that all the seat-clutching and white-knuckling of my life has to be a bit of a kindly laugh for the one who’s actually holding the reins, the one who knew how aviation would work long before Orville and Wilbur figured it out, who knows exactly how The Kid will manage with or without a wonky vertebra, who is telling a story with each life and will decide not only how much turbulence is manageable without my help but also will never abandon me through it.

I sweat on planes now. But as TH and I sat in white chairs on the sand and witnessed two people make promises to each other that will become harder and more full with time, I realized something else that wasn’t true before: I cry at weddings. Because now I know.

This morning TH and I (and TK, from his booster) watched the news coverage of One World Trade Center and its spire’s completion, bringing the building up to its full measure of 1,776 feet. The measure of courage and hope, of refusing to live in fear when there is plenty to be afraid of. 1776–the height of bravery, the year of the birth of a nation that just doesn’t give up. And I, a thrice-over bungee-jumper in a former life, turned to TH and said, “I could never be up that high.” I knew that it wasn’t always true, but it is now. Which is okay, because the view from where I am is pretty impressive too.