The Fear of Flying — and Going Anyway

On anxiety, window seats, headphones at full volume, and getting on the plane anyway.

I used to be a flight attendant.

I want to start there because it matters. Not for long, and not for a major carrier, but for a regional airline, and I did it without a second thought. I walked onto planes the way most people walk into an office. I was comfortable up there. It was just a place I went.

That version of me feels like someone I read about rather than someone I was.

If you’ve ever dealt with fear of flying you might recognize what comes next.

Somewhere around ten years ago, without a trigger I can point to, without a bad flight or a close call or any rational explanation, I started being afraid of flying. It didn’t arrive all at once. It crept in slowly, quietly, until one day I realized that the thing I used to do without thinking was now something I had to talk myself into.

It’s not only flying, which is part of what makes it so strange to me. Boats on a lake. Kayaking on rough water. Ferries. There’s something about being in motion and not being in control of that motion that my nervous system has decided, at some point in my forties, to treat as a genuine threat. I find this maddening. I find it especially maddening because I want to see the entire world and a significant portion of it requires getting on a plane.

What It Actually Feels Like

I want to describe this accurately because I think a lot of people experience it and don’t talk about it, and the not talking about it makes it worse.

Before I even board, my chest gets tight. If I’m thinking about an upcoming flight, really sitting with the reality of it, I can feel nauseous. On bad days I shake. My face gets hot and flushed in a way I can’t control. It can be so overwhelming that the idea of walking down a jetway feels genuinely impossible, not metaphorically impossible but physically, bodily impossible in a way that has nothing to do with logic or reason.

Once I’m on the plane, I want my window seat. I want my headphones in at whatever volume I can tolerate. I want my head against the wall and I want to focus on breathing and I do not want to talk to anyone. This is not me being unfriendly. This is me managing something in the only way I’ve found that helps even a little.

Takeoff bothers me some. Turbulence bothers me more. What bothers me most is the fear of the fear itself, the worry that somewhere over the Atlantic I’ll have a severe anxiety attack and not be able to pull myself back. That I’ll be trapped at 35,000 feet with no way out and no way to calm down. That fear of losing control is, I think, the real thing underneath all of it.

I’ve tried ice packs on the back of my neck. Low doses of Xanax and Klonopin. Breathing exercises. Reminding myself, firmly and repeatedly, that statistically speaking I am safer on this plane than I was in my car on the way to the airport. None of it is a magical fix. In 2024 I flew to Florida, took Xanax, and had a genuinely okay flight. The turbulence barely registered. I thought maybe I’d turned a corner. Then I flew somewhere for work last year and the anxiety was so severe before boarding that I genuinely wasn’t sure I was going to make it onto the plane.

It’s progressive. It’s gotten worse over time, not better. And I still don’t have a clean explanation for why.

Why I’m Going Anyway

I tried to book the Amsterdam flight probably a dozen times before I actually completed the purchase.

I’d get partway through, feel the tightness start in my chest, and close the browser. I’d tell myself I’d do it later. Later would come and I’d try again and close the browser again. This went on longer than I’m entirely comfortable admitting.

What finally got me through it was something simple and true: I want to see the world. I have always wanted to see the world. And I cannot see the world from my couch in Missouri, no matter how comfortable the couch is. And for the record, it is very comfortable. I have two cats named Bruce and Carl who have strong opinions about me staying on it.

The only way to get to the places I want to go is to get on the fucking plane. That’s it. That’s the whole equation. The fear is real and I’m not pretending it isn’t, but it cannot be the thing that wins. I have maybe 24 meaningful trips left in me if I pace myself and I refuse to spend them negotiating with my own nervous system on a couch.

I think about the version of me who walked onto planes without thinking. I don’t know if I’ll ever get back to her exactly. But I think I can get somewhere close, one flight at a time, one destination at a time, one white-knuckled transatlantic crossing at a time.

The flight to Amsterdam is booked. September is coming.

I’m going to put my headphones in, find my window seat, lay my head against the wall, and breathe.

And then I’m going to Amsterdam.

— Jen