Thirty-five thousand feet above the Pacific, I sit in the stillness of another long-haul flight. Ten hours until I land in Portland. Ten hours until I see my kids.
I used to love these journeys — the hum of the engines, the anticipation of what lay ahead. Now, the excitement is muted by something heavier: distance, not just in miles but in life.
My world exists in pieces—some here, others there. A family stretched across time zones, never fully whole.
They say absence stings the most when life is good. And my life is good. I’ve built something meaningful, something intentional.
But no success, no purpose, fills the space where presence should be. A video call can’t replace the weight of my sons leaning against me on the couch. A message can’t hold the warmth of a glance shared over dinner.
For the next few weeks, I get to be there. There will be no screens, no countdowns, just moments.
And I’ll hold onto them, knowing that soon, I’ll be in another airport, counting down in the other direction.
Some people measure life in years. I measure mine in time together—and time apart.
What do you count by?
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