I grew up around airplanes.
Honestly, I was around them before I was old enough to understand what they even were. Some kids grew up around tractors, footballs, or fishing poles.
I grew up around wings.
Dad had been in a flying club back in college, and even though he farmed for a living, he always carried the dream of becoming a crop duster. I still remember sitting with Mom at the Lincoln airport while Dad worked toward his instrument rating, watching planes rise into the Nebraska sky and wondering what the world looked like from up there.
Eventually Dad earned his commercial and instrument ratings and started working toward his ag aviation license, which even included aerobatics.
Then Mom caught the bug too.
By the time I was in junior high, she had earned her commercial, instrument, and Certified Flight Instructor ratings.
Flying wasn’t just something my parents did.
It was part of our family language.
So when I got to college and enrolled in aviation computer science, ground school was a natural fit. Between my freshman and sophomore year, Mom became my instructor in the cockpit too, helping me log the hours and sharpen the skills I’d need for the day every student pilot waits for:
First solo.
The day finally came.
We taxied out in the little four-seater we’d trained in for months. Same seats. Same gauges. Same checklist. Same runway.
Everything was exactly as it had always been.
Until Mom opened the door and stepped out.
The second she closed it behind her, something shifted.
That little training plane instantly transformed into what felt like a Boeing 747.
It suddenly felt enormous.
Heavier.
Louder.
More serious.
I sat there at the end of the runway doing everything she had drilled into me a hundred times.
Flaps.
Ailerons.
Instruments.
Trim.
Throttle.
Breathe.
Then came the moment.
I locked the brakes, pushed the throttle forward, felt the engine roar to life, then released.
The runway rushed underneath me.
Airspeed alive.
Faster.
Faster.
Then I gently pulled back on the yoke.
And just like that, I was flying alone.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see the wheels leave the ground. I looked out the side window and watched my shadow racing beside me in the prairie grass that lined the airport.
That image still stays with me.
A tiny airplane.
A tiny shadow.
A giant moment.
The takeoff, weirdly enough, was the easy part.
Now I had to bring the damn thing back down.
So I did what felt natural.
I flew the familiar path Mom and I had practiced over and over. I circled over our house, banked over the fields, traced the line of the Missouri River beside our property, and even gave the wings a little rock over some neighbors who happened to be outside.
For a few minutes, it stopped feeling terrifying.
It started feeling like freedom.
Then the airport came back into view.
And so did reality.
I triple-checked the radio frequency before calling out my position and intentions, wanting every pilot within fifty miles to know exactly where I was and, more importantly, to stay the hell out of my way.
Downwind leg.
Base turn.
Then final.
Less than a mile to touchdown.
I had done this landing pattern with Mom countless times.
So why was I suddenly sweating through my shirt?
Memory, don’t fail me now.
Throttle back.
First notch of flaps.
Feet steady on the centerline.
Second notch.
Airspeed bleeding off.
The runway rising.
My shadow now stretched beneath me on the pavement.
Closer.
Closer.
Right at the edge of stall speed.
Level off.
Nose up.
Power idle.
And then—
chirp.
The sweetest sound I had ever heard.
Rubber meeting runway.
I had done it.
Not just the mechanics of flying.
Not just the landing.
I had crossed that invisible line between being taught and trusting myself.
That was the real moment.
The flight lasted minutes.
The feeling lasted forever.
Then came the part I had somehow forgotten about.
The shirt cutting.
For non-pilots, it’s an old aviation tradition: after your first successful solo, your instructor cuts the back of your shirt to symbolize that you no longer need them sitting behind you guiding every move.
A rite of passage.
A badge of independence.
A little weird.
A little hilarious.
And deeply perfect.
Mom smiled, grabbed the scissors, and snipped away a piece of the shirt I had apparently made the terrible decision to actually like.
Worth it.
Absolutely worth it.
Some moments in life don’t just prove you can do something.
They prove you’re ready to trust yourself.
This was one of those days.
If this resonated with you, you’re not alone.
