My 9 Year Old’s Plane Waiting Conversations

Olivia Smith 09/06/2026

For some people, flying is simply a source of deep, visceral anxiety. While others treat it as routine travel, for me, the experience remains a complicated knot of fear and learned routine. I don’t dread the idea of travel itself, but the act of flying—the subtle changes in engine sound, the rumble of turbulence—can send a cold sweat through me. It’s a tension I’ve learned to manage, but it still exists.

I understand that flying is undeniably the safest method of travel. We know that turbulence is just like being on a bumpy road, and I am thoroughly familiar with the failsafes and emergency protocols airlines employ to ensure safety. Yet, even with this knowledge, soaring through the air at thirty thousand feet in a metal tin can doesn’t automatically grant me absolute confidence.

Part of the anxiety is tied up in the safety briefings. Despite the natural urge to tune out official instructions, I find myself compelled to listen, especially when someone in uniform is speaking. This need to comply, being both a people-pleaser and a law-abiding citizen, means I give my full attention to the warnings, even the ones that make my stomach clench.

Then there are the details that multiply the worry: the life jacket, the whistle, the torch. These emergency procedures, while mathematically sound, feel intensely futile. The thought of what happens if we land on water, or the practical difficulty of managing an emergency situation in the dark, only heightens the sense of vulnerability.

To cope with this internal turmoil, I have developed a personal ritual. As soon as the plane begins its powerful roar on the runway, I initiate a slow, deliberate count. Five breaths in, five to hold, five out. Repeating this thirty times allows me to mentally shift focus, imagining a scenario of utter chaos—a nuclear disaster or a zombie apocalypse—reinforcing the feeling that, in that moment, I am on the safest plane out of dodge.

This mental exercise helps ground me, reinforcing the paradox that being airborne is, in fact, a state of safety. It’s a way of managing the dislike of flying so that it doesn’t interfere with my life or work.

However, this careful internal calibration faces a significant challenge when flying with family. While my daughter, eleven, handles the experience with simple travel sickness, she remains unfazed by the airport, the flight, and the landing. My nine-year-old son, conversely, transforms the experience into an intense study of aeronautical engineering. As we queue for boarding, his questions quickly move beyond simple logistics to morbid inquiries about potential failures and fatal mid-air disasters.

His curiosity is complex and morbid, focusing on the technicalities of flight and potential engineering errors, rather than the practicalities of travel. It highlights the difference between a fear that can be managed and a curiosity that demands attention. It remains a fascinating tension: the anxiety of the journey versus the complex, often unsettling, reality of what we are traveling through.