When I was seven years old, I hopped on my first flight to leave behind everything I had ever known back in Minnesota, to welcome in a new way of life in Arizona. As I cuddled in to the airplane seat, I gleamed out the window awaiting to see if the rumors of the sight were deemed to be true.

To much dismay, the people didn’t appear as ants and there was no sightings of my house from above.

Despite the acknowledgement of having been lied to by my peers of my first grade class, I remember the bewildering feeling of lifting off the ground and the immense amount of joy that came from watching everything grow smaller as I lifted off into the sky.

From a young age, I had acquired a longing for adrenaline. The more my heart pounded, the more I felt alive. The way my ears popped as the pressure increased, and the way my stomach dropped when turbulence hit, I felt as though I was on one of the biggest roller coasters yet. I remember the fear that the plane would accidentally lift off into outer space, and the way the tilting of the wings made me feel as we prepped for landing. From the free snacks, to the games played by the flight attendants,

I fell in love with everything to do with flying just as soon as it was brought to my attention.

I had big aspirations for my future, and as I ventured into the second grade after travelling to the opposite side of the country, I had it set in my mind that I wanted to make a life out of travel.