Text me when you land.
For years, these were the final five words my mother told me before I got on an airplane.
They always annoyed me.
Sure, I knew air travel wasn’t 100% safe. But neither was driving. Or walking down the street. Or even sitting at home.
Inherent risks were everywhere. And yet, the odds were still pretty good that I would arrive safely.
Plus, I was already an adult. I craved autonomy. And I didn’t like the thought of reporting to my parents, even if it just meant texting the word Landed.
Nevertheless, I tended to comply — even when I was embarking on a trip that didn’t involve my parents in any way.
Then, one year, my mother surprised me with a new question.
What’s your flight number? I’ll use it to track you on FlightAware.
I gave her the flight information, and that was that. No more demands for an I’ve landed text message. My mother already knew I’d made it by the time I reached the gate.
I was a curious as I was relieved, so I checked out FlightAware for myself.
Not only did the website have the times of takeoffs and landings, but it also had a boatload of other information. Route maps. Speed charts. Altitude graphs.
Enthralled by all this, I started a new habit.
Once my own flights landed, I would spend some time reliving the journey I’d just taken. It gave me closure to know that the city I saw out the window while en route was indeed Memphis, or that the previous day’s version of the flight had also gotten in late.
I would look at the previous legs the aircraft had flown. Was the plane based out of Dallas, or Charlotte? Did it ferry people domestically, or take up routes to other countries?
In an instant, I’d become a FlightAware addict.
And that was not normal.
You’re such a dork.
A friend used to tell me this regularly, back in college. And it always rankled me.
I had a clear picture of what a dork looked like and how one acted. Kind of like the character Milton Waddams in Office Space. And I didn’t want any part of that.
I wanted to be cool, to be stylish, to be normal. Even though I had enough quirkiness to make such a wish nothing more than a pipe dream.
My friend was simply calling it like it was. And yet, I resented her insinuation.
But now, I’m more comfortable in my own skin.
I recognize that such oddities are part of my ethos. And, in a strange way, part of my appeal. As such, I might as well lean into them.
So, I am unapologetic about my FlightAware obsession. I make no secret of my disdain for the word very. (Take good note of it, dear reader, as you likely won’t see it in this publication again.) And I proudly wear blue jeans and black tennis shoes, even in the sweltering heat of a Southern summer.
It is all so strange. And yet, I’m here for it.
On Wednesdays, we wear pink.
This is perhaps the enduring line from the movie Mean Girls.
Meant to describe the rules of the road of an infamous clique, it speaks to our collective love of normalcy.
When given the opportunity to diversify, we instead seek to consolidate. To find the path of least resistance, and to demand adherence to it.
So many of our societal systems are built upon this principle. School and fashion, just to name a couple.
We make it seem as if there is no alternative to being part of the in crowd. And in the process, individuality is cast aside.
In a vacuum, this might seem like an innocent gripe. But this regression to the mean can have insidious consequences.
As a shy, reclusive child, I continually felt as if there was something wrong with me. I felt the need to change my ways, and to conform to the social expectations that surrounded me.
It took me until adulthood to learn that my introversion was a personality type, and not a flaw. Such a discovery has helped me thrive. But I often wonder what would have happened had I felt the freedom to be myself earlier in life.
I’m sure plenty of others feel the same way as I once did — forced off their mark in the name of normalcy. And I feel for them.
But fortunately, things are moving in the right direction.
There is more of an appetite to celebrate our individuality at all levels these days. The peer pressure and cliques remain. But they’re no longer quite as dominant as they once were.
The challenge is no longer finding the pockets of society that welcome our authentic expression. The challenge is now leaning into it.
Don’t do that. It might invite questions.
This is an adage I’ve heard plenty.
The insinuation is that silence is golden. Questions lead to judgment. And judgment lead us to be cast out into the darkness.
When I recoiled at being labeled a dork, I was following this adage to a T.
I wanted to be normal. And I feared inviting unwanted questions.
But every step of my adult journey has taken me away from this pattern.
There was the move to Texas. The decision to pursue a TV news career, and then pivot to marketing. And the fact that I did all this while remaining single and living on my own.
All of it elicited questions. It still does today.
Yet, over time, I’ve gotten more comfortable at answering these questions.
For there is no shame in sharing the truth. And there are no real adverse consequences to my doing so.
The benefits of staying true to myself far outweigh the risks.
So, I will keep my fashion style intact. I will cling tightly to certain grammatical rules. I will nerd out on FlightAware data.
I will do all this unapologetically. And so should we all.
We can all lean into our uniqueness. Our individuality. Anything and everything that makes us so strange.
We can stay true to ourselves, rather than conforming to society’s dominant narrative.
We will be better for this. And so will the communities we’re a part of.
The only thing stopping us from this reality — is us. Let’s change that.