I went on my first plane at four years old.

Thinking about it now, I don’t remember much, other than the fluttering feeling of butterflies in my stomach. I was nervous, just like anyone else would be when embarking on a journey in a metal-bellied bird.

But it was okay. It was okay because my mom said it was okay. I didn’t know why, and I definitely had no clue about the mechanics of aeronautical travel, but I trusted both her and the machine.

Then, ten came. She told me the same thing: “trust.” Trust in both the plane, and in the pilot. We were now going international, traversing over deep depths of ocean that I couldn’t help but imagine myself drowning in. But I survived, and like before, it was okay.

Many flights later, this past summer, at 17, I went on the longest flight from the busiest airport in the world, Atlanta. Seventeen hours and a whole lot of trust later, I arrived in South Africa. I lived. Flight became part of me, almost like the grooves on my palms. It was me.

I was no longer terrified of such soaring machines, but rather savored the experience of such rides. This past December, I even embarked on my first ever transatlantic flight by myself, boarding the plane and flying to Germany by my lonesome. I was still a bit scared then, more of being kidnapped than actually flying, but once again, trust was on my side. It was okay.

Over the years, I have learned that trust is a hard thing to earn, but such an easy thing to be ripped from your grasp. Even from the ripe age of four, I have always known and understood that planes and pilots were to be trusted, and that in the end, everything would be okay.

Yet, the thing is, it’s not okay. At least recently, when my eyes catch the harsh glare of the television, and the even harsher depictions of burning planes with wings ripped from their seams. 

Ten killed, eighty injured, sixty-seven dead. Countless families mourning the deaths of countless loved ones. Bering Air, Delta Airlines, American Airlines. Most of which I have traversed many times.

I don’t know the cause or reason behind such disasters, but I do know and feel the distrust. I feel the anxiety of the American people. What if by a chance of luck, it was me? What if they had died? Gone? What if it was me who had burned alive and drowned in that body of water? And what if they had to search days for the minced remnants of me, my body?

And I can’t help but think back on that little girl whose stomach was once filled with butterflies while she boarded her first flight. I thought I had grown out of my fear, especially by maturing and learning to trust. But, now, I’m still scared. I’m scared of it not being okay. I’m scared that someday I’ll board that plane and never return.