The Power of Our Stories

So much can happen on a two-hour flight.

Welcome new readers!

Dream Big is about my writing journey. Approximately every two weeks, I post about writing my first novel in my 40s, embracing a creative life, and the everyday moments that inspire me as I juggle family life and my dreams of becoming a published author.

I’m beyond grateful for your company on my writing journey, and I love hearing from you. Please hit reply or comment below if you’d like to connect. ✨

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I’ve just returned home from visiting my parents on the other side of the U.S. I worked less than usual while I was gone, but I managed to steal a few hours of writing time on their patio, enchanted with the view. Beyond the turquoise pool is a horse farm where, each morning, we’d spot a horse or two grazing in the fenced pasture, swishing their tails. With a breeze that rustled the leaves of nearby trees and whispered through the screened patio, the air was thick with quiet. I loved it.

My writing spot earlier in the week

My trip was memorable before I arrived, though. On my way there, I received a complimentary upgrade on my second flight. Hooray! I boarded early and settled into my extra-wide seat. When the plane's stream of passengers slowed to a trickle, I eyed the empty seat beside mine. Could I be that lucky? An upgrade and no one next to me?

Nope.

Moments before the flight crew shut the door, the last passenger burst down the jetway, breathless, adrenaline surging.

“They changed the gate on me!” he announced to the pair of flight attendants at the front, before ordering a double vodka on the rocks.

A man with snowy, cropped hair eased into the seat next to mine, tipping his head against the headrest as he caught his breath. After a minute or so, he sat up and pulled out his phone. As if speaking through a bullhorn, he announced to the entire cabin where he’d be waiting upon arrival. “Hello, Mike? Mike? Mike! I’ll be the only person with the Special Forces hat!”

My heart deflated. He was just. So. Loud.

I turned to my book but barely read a sentence before he ended his call and said, “Sorry. That was my buddy. I told him I’d get a cab, but he insists on picking me up.”

“No worries,” I gave him a close-lipped smile and tried again with my book, but there was more.

“That’s how it is with my Army buddies. There’s nothing we wouldn’t do for each other.” He drank, then added, “We do this reunion every two years, and that’s where I’m headed. We honor the guys we lost over there and since we came home.” He paused and added, “Vietnam. You spend six months in the jungle with someone and you’re bonded for life.”

His candor hung in the silence of strangers, but you can’t unhear words like that. With a single utterance, and perhaps the help of a little vodka, he shed a layer, revealing more than a very loud man seemingly oblivious to whatever shred of cell phone etiquette remains in this world.

This man must have so many stories, I thought.

As we took off over nighttime Dallas with a spectacularly full moon hanging in the sky, I said, “I’m glad you have a friend like that,” and I meant it.

Nighttime Dallas

As fate would have it, I recently finished The Women by Kristin Hannah, a stunning novel spotlighting the women who served in the Vietnam War. As she accomplished with The Nightingale a decade ago, Hannah’s research is extensive, gifting many readers a new understanding of history. I had a million questions when I finished The Women; it’s the kind of book that stays with me.

So I asked if he had read it.

He hadn’t, but eagerly noted the title and author, saying he was a voracious reader and promising to pick it up as soon as he returned home. He nodded at the book in my lap. “It’s nice to see someone reading a real book. Kids don’t read like they used to, you know. When I learned to read, I learned with plain old phonics.”

At this point, we were past the clipped niceties of strangers mutually agreeing to a silent flight. I told him he might be relieved to know that current reading instruction focuses on the science of reading, which does, indeed, include phonics.

He ordered another drink, and all those stories I imagined began to flow easily. He turned out to be a great storyteller. Over the next two hours, my annoying seatmate became a real person, brimming with adventure and patriotism, crushed by heartache, still curious.

Drafted at 19, his son was born soon after; that marriage did not survive the war. He told me about jumping out of airplanes flown by men the same age as him, that he didn’t have time to be scared when the guy behind was waiting to jump at exactly the right time. He told me about that same son finally getting sober and living with him for the first time at the age of 55. He told me, with a trembling chin and tears in his eyes, that he had been widowed three months earlier.

This man, who had jumped out of planes and braved battle, asked how writers do what they do when faced with so much rejection. He shared his love of poetry and recited William Ernest Henley’s Invictus, his favorite poem among many, especially the works of Henry David Thoreau and Robert Frost.

Too much for two strangers on an airplane? Definitely.

But each of his stories reminded me that we all have them, that we are complex beings woven from our experiences. Unless we look closely, deeper, or grant the benefit of the doubt more often, they’re easy to miss.

Then it got a little weird.

The conversation took a turn when, on his third drink, he said, “I bet we have very different political views.”

And I thought, Careful now.

I took a moment, hoping he would hear the echo of his words falling flat. 

“Maybe. But I’m not having that conversation with you,” I said, adding, “Especially on a plane.”

A pause, followed by deep laughter. “Hell, you’re right.” He settled against the headrest and muttered, “And anyway, I’m not stupid enough to start that conversation with someone as smart as you,” before he closed his eyes again.

I smiled to myself.

Here was a stranger, a bit too loud, way too chatty, drinking too many double vodkas. Usually, I’d steer clear of this guy. As for the political stuff, I can only say that this conversation would likely never occur in any earthbound context. But there we were, two people in the middle of the sky, sharing stories.

As the plane descended, he pulled out his phone, but his battery was drained and he had no charger. I offered mine for the remainder of the flight, which I suppose makes me partially responsible for the call to his buddy when we landed, telling Mike and the entire plane that he was on the ground. And yes, after three drinks, he was even louder.

I sincerely hope his hangover didn’t ruin his reunion.

It could have been the worst flight ever. On another day, it probably would have been. But that evening, I felt a whisper of tenderness toward this Army vet, a man hardened by war and broken with grief.

And that is the power of stories. Connection. Empathy. Humanity.

When we landed, he wished me luck with my book and said he could tell I’d do great. I thanked him for his service.

I don’t know what happened on that plane, but I do know this: If I got a 76-year-old Vietnam vet, who also happened to vote for the sitting president, to read a Kristin Hannah book... now that would be something.

(You might also like to know that, when I flew home, my seatmates remained silent for the duration of both flights.)

Home!😍

Your turn: Questions, comments, personal connections—I love them all. One of my favorite parts about writing Dream Big is connecting with readers. If you are so inclined, please chime in!

Thanks for being here.❤️