The Miracle of Flight

The magic lies in the learning, not the feat itself.

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Recently, I read about a young pilot’s preflight announcement on a transatlantic journey to Madrid. Did you catch this story? It was the first flight on which Cole Doss and his mother, Moya Doss, a flight attendant, worked together. 

Sweet, right? She must be so proud . . . right? Probably, but something about this story rattled me. 

I must admit, I cried a teensy bit when that grown child gave props to his mom. But I also couldn’t help wondering how that mother focused on her work during that flight. How did she simply “carry on” while her child piloted an aircraft carrying hundreds of people over an ocean? As qualified as that young man is—and obviously he is—how was his mother not white-knuckling it in the galley as she prepared the meal trolley?

Fortunately, I don’t have to worry about a child of mine piloting a plane now or in the near future, but I do have a teenager learning how to drive. At this stage more than any other on my parenting journey, I am a study in silent fretting; teenagers can do that to you, no? How in the world will I manage my child operating a motor vehicle?

On the instructor’s encouragement, I rode along for the first lesson to learn how to support the process (i.e., how to not freak out). I know. It sounds like hovering; maybe it was. But I asked my son’s permission, and he was fine with it, so there’s that. As promised, I gleaned a few tips on how to support a new driver, along with some humbling nuggets of wisdom about what it really means to learn.

At the beginning of the lesson, we crawled around the neighborhood. The wide, empty streets were manageable, ensuring a pleasant, easy start for a new driver (and his mother). This would be fine, I thought.

Not so fast. Within minutes, the instructor directed my son onto the main road, where the speed limit increased and cars hurtled by in oncoming traffic. We accelerated; I looked out the side window, steadying my breathing. We tore down a road we’ve traveled countless times, all the familiar markers whizzing by. My heart’s pace increased as a light tension settled in my core and shoulders. A few times the instructor guided the wheel; I don’t know how many times he used his brake, or if he did at all. The man was unflappable. 

Meanwhile, my son held the wheel at 9 and 3, his shoulders sloped downward. He seemed at ease, confident. Was he actually having fun? I couldn’t decide if this disturbed or calmed me. Maybe both? Did he realize he was 2 mph over the speed limit? There’s a red light—did he see it? And the cyclist? Was my anxiety rooted in maternal instinct, or would I feel the same with any new driver?

You might be happy to know that I glued a smile on my face and said absolutely nothing.

The truth is that my anxiety had everything and nothing to do with my son. And really, he did everything right; he showed up, he listened, he tried, and worked hard. As expected, there were jerky starts and hard stops, each one uncomfortable and necessary to his learning process. But the anxiety was all mine, as I grappled with this new space of parenting older kids and, perhaps most important, a reminder of how gritty real learning can be. 

I have always been inspired by people of any age chasing new or long-held dreams, however wild; I love when people honor their truths, but I am mostly drawn to their determination and self-belief. So I just keep at it.

The reminder is timely. As I try to build a writing life, I have days when my dreams seem . . . too ambitious? Too much for a busy mom of three? Downright exhausting? I’m trying to learn so many things: the craft of writing, the business side of the field, how to market one’s work, author platform, and the myriad ways one can achieve publication. In my brightest moments, I remind myself of how far I’ve come since enrolling in my first creative writing class in 2019: the building blocks of story, how much I adore creative nonfiction, and the authentic connections that blossom through creative work. I’ve always been inspired by people of any age chasing new or long-held dreams, however wild; I love when people honor their truths, but I am mostly drawn to their determination and self-belief. So I just keep at it.

Over the course of my son’s lesson, those jerky starts evened out and the stops became smoother; he parked beautifully several times and completed a 3-point turn. By the end of the hour, the kid was driving. For real! He wasn’t ready to zip to the store for milk and eggs just yet, but I could begin to imagine it, which is more than I could do an hour earlier. Perhaps Moya Doss sensed a similar possibility after her son’s first flight lesson—the same promise that will allow me to let my children take the wheel.

People perform amazing feats everyday: we fly planes across oceans; we run marathons and earn degrees; we play instruments, write books, and create award-worthy art; our babies learn to walk and talk, and our grown bodies recover from illness and injury; we relearn old skills and perfect new ones; we carry on. Many of these accomplishments are worthy of celebration, but the real magic lies in the journey to those rewards, in those tiny actions and efforts that add up over time, the jerky starts and hard stops, over and over until new possibilities emerge. Real learning, the kind that changes us, is rarely a smooth path, and it’s not for the faint of heart.

The way I see it, you’re riding along with me as I learn something new, bumping along, stalling and restarting this writing dream of mine, over and over. I’ve said it before and I will continue to say it: Thanks for being here.

As for our pilot, Cole Doss, I did a little digging. Turns out he comes from a family of fliers; dad is a pilot and his sister is on track to be a flight attendant. I found relief in this information, and I think I know why. It seems Cole has been on his path to flight for most of his young life, which still amounts to many years of showing up to the task of learning how to fly across an ocean. Long enough, it would seem, to smooth out most of the bumps and for his mother to breathe easy—easy enough, at least, to get that meal trolley down the aisle.