I HAVE ALWAYS loved airports. With a father working abroad, I felt that going there meant welcoming him home or sending him off. Of course, the former was always preferred, as it would include a quick stop at Duty Free for chocolates and the next few months with a complete household. On the other hand, seeing him leave would be rough as I was never a fan of long-distance calls. But, if it was done to provide for our family, how could I complain? Besides, I knew he would come back. I was always sure he would come back.

Plot twist: he didn’t. Well, technically, he did. But, four years ago, the man we sent off came back as a cold body in a wooden casket. The skies matched the somber mood as we waited in the cargo area instead of the usual arrivals bay. We were at an airport, but I hated every second of it.

The months after made me wonder if I would always just be a fraction of who I once was after losing someone that important. I rooted myself in what I found familiar, and I had forgotten that it could disappear if fate wills it to. It made me despise the idea of any kind of departure. Why let people move around if it meant even the slightest chance of never coming back? I didn’t get an answer. But, after a lot of self-destruction, I found my footing again. This time, no airports, no chocolates, no calls—just one blind step at a time to get my life together.

Then, I had to fly to Manila to further pursue my education. Like everyone else, I was ecstatic. It was this excitement that almost made me forget about what I would have to face. Suddenly, I was in an airport bound for a new city. Years had passed at this point, but my hands were just as clammy at the mere sight of the structure. There were too many scenarios playing in my head, each one holding a memory of my dad in the very same halls. The urge to take a step back was strong, but it took everything in me to brave through and do what I had to.

As of writing, I have been to the airport more in the past months than in the last few years combined. Getting my ID and flight itinerary ready to show guards became second nature. Packing bags felt like a routine. Waiting lounges turned to safe spaces. Sometimes, I don’t even notice the plane taking off anymore. It is a constant process, but like a lot of things, airports now hold new meanings for me. I was glad that it brought me to a different world, yet at times it would also make me feel guilty. I was now getting too familiar with airports, flights, and even cargo. It made me wonder if this implied that I was slowly forgetting home. Was I forsaking my grief and my dad’s memory every time I looked forward to departures?

Hours in airports made me reflect on this. My whole life I was convinced that I was defined by what I find familiar. And, while that may be true, it does not mean that I am caged by it. Yes, certain places hold painful memories, but we take whatever chance we get to make the hurt subside. Maybe that’s why roundtrip tickets are a thing. You go somewhere new and explore to your heart’s content. Then, you use that experience to go back to where you came from—only this time a little less naive of the world around you. I thought my life would remain broken after losing my father, but I am allowed to find things that make me feel whole again. What distinguishes me is not what I go through, but how I deal with it. Perhaps my true identity is one I’m still building.

Taking flight has become an integral part of my life now, and slowly, I have become more and more at ease. I don’t know where my next destination may be, but what matters is that I have found an appreciation for the hustle and bustle of it all. I find myself smiling over every trip, grateful that it is possible. I imagine every view of the heavens is a mile closer to wherever my dad may be. I have allowed myself to take on new heights, knowing full well that I will always land when the flight is over.

And, just like that, I learned to love airports again.