I have a strange confession to make: I am one of those rare people who genuinely enjoys flying. I suppose that’s a good thing, considering I own a travel business—but more than the act of flying itself, it’s what flying represents to me that I love.

Take Me Home

I have been traveling back and forth between Boston and Italy since I was ten years old. Whether I’m heading to Boston or to Italy, flying has always meant one thing to me: going home. And so I’ve come to cherish it. There’s also something utterly mind-boggling to me about waking up in one part of the world and falling asleep in another. Flying reunites families. Flying invites adventure. Flying introduces us to new people and new lives. Yes, it can be exhausting and inconvenient—but how extraordinary is it that we no longer have to cross oceans by boat, as my mother once did, spending weeks just to reach a new land?

In 2025 alone, I traveled internationally twelve times. Still, nothing could have prepared me for what happened on January 7th, during what was supposed to be a routine flight from Rome to Boston.

I was returning from Tuscany after spending my first holiday season in my new home there. Traveling with me were my mother—who has some mobility issues—my sister, and my small dog, Trixie. I had spent a total of nearly six months in Italy in 2025 and would have stayed longer if not for a few routine matters that require my presence in Boston. Reluctantly, it was time to return to the States.

“Is There a Doctor on Board?”

About two hours into the flight, the somewhat familiar announcement came over the loudspeaker: “Is there a doctor on board?” It’s unsettling, of course, but not entirely uncommon. In fact, I’d heard it two or three times on other flights in 2025 alone. I didn’t think much of it at first. I was seated near the front of the plane with extra legroom to accommodate Trixie and her carrier, while my mom and sister were seated toward the middle of the plane. Thankfully, my sister had just visited us, so I knew the call for help wasn’t for them. Still, traveling with my mother and dog adds a level of stress that I don’t experience when I fly alone.

Several passengers stood up and moved quickly toward the back of the plane. I assumed—correctly—that they were medical professionals. I still wasn’t nervous. I figured someone might be anxious or feeling nauseas or unwell. Lunch had just been served, perhaps it didn’t agree with someone, I thought.

Then I glanced at the TV screen in front of me.

Where “Boston” should have been listed as our destination, it now read “Heathrow.” Where seven hours should have been listed as our remaining time in flight, it now said one.

We were making an emergency landing.

My sister immediately came up to my seat. There had been a death on board. A 59-year-old passenger, seated just two seats away from where my mother and sister were sitting, had suddenly stopped breathing. The entire plane fell into an eerie, heavy silence.

Choosing Perspective Over Fear

I admit, I hesitated before sharing this story with you.

As someone whose life—and business—revolves around travel, the last thing I ever want to do is instill fear or hesitation in anyone. I never want someone to read my words and think, Maybe I shouldn’t go. So, I debated whether this experience belonged here at all.

But in the end, I realized this story isn’t about fear. It’s about perspective. It’s not about death. It’s about life.

I won’t dwell on everything that followed—the emergency landing, disembarking in London, the long wait to reboard, the unexpected overnight stay at a Rome airport hotel with an anxious dog. What matters more is what this experience revealed to me.

Humanity at 30,000 Feet

What stayed with me most was not panic, but humanity.

Strangers leapt from their seats without hesitation. Medical professionals did everything possible. The flight crew remained calm, compassionate, and composed. Hundreds of people from different countries, backgrounds, and languages were suddenly united by care and quiet respect for a life lost. In the face of tragedy, there was grace.

And it’s important to say this clearly: flying remains one of the safest ways to travel. Statistically, you are far more likely to be injured in a car accident—or even slip and fall in the shower—than experience a fatal incident on a commercial flight. Aviation is built on extraordinary safety standards, rigorous training, and layers upon layers of precaution. What happened on that flight was tragic—but it was also incredibly rare.

Putting Fear in Its Proper Place

This experience didn’t teach me that flying is dangerous.

It reminded me that life is fragile.

We board planes assuming tomorrow is guaranteed. We rush through airports, complain about delays, grumble about seats and snacks. And then, in a single moment, we are reminded that arrival itself is a gift.

I was reminded to slow down. To be gentler—with strangers, with the journey, with myself.

I was reminded that every trip matters. Every reunion. Every return home. Every adventure we almost talk ourselves out of.

Flying doesn’t just move people across oceans—it connects lives. It allows my mother to see places that once took her weeks to reach by boat. It allows my dog to curl up at my feet while we cross continents in hours. It allows me to live a life that spans two homes, two cultures, and two worlds.

And perhaps the most important lesson of all: fear should never be the loudest voice in the room.

What This Experience Taught Me

Life carries risk no matter where we stand, even when we stand still on firm ground. But wonder, connection, and love live on the other side of movement. I still love flying—maybe even more now. Because every time I buckle my seatbelt, I’m reminded that the destination isn’t just a place.

It’s the people we return to.
The memories we make.
And the simple miracle of getting there at all.

So yes—I will keep flying.
With gratitude.
With humility.
And with awe for just how extraordinary it is that we can wake up in one part of the world… and fall asleep in another.