My flight-free journey began as inauspiciously as you can imagine. It was not born out of an awareness of my carbon emissions, or my desire for slow travel. It was born from the fact that I really, truly hate flying. Early in the summer of 2019, I had flown out to Washington D.C., and the flight there was so nerve-wracking, as soon as I landed I texted my mom to say I was not going to be flying back home after my two-month stay. I’ve always really hated flying, and so at the beginning, my decision to not fly was largely based on my anxiety.

But as a year has come and gone, and I have not felt the need to fly, the purpose of going flight-free has morphed into an awareness of my innate privilege. I have always chosen to fly, not being compelled by work or by a lack of options. I’ve always had options when it comes to travel, I’ve always just chosen the easiest option. I don’t have to fly, but always felt like I needed to. I needed to fly to see this country, I needed to fly to go see bands, to go see my friends. But when I stepped off that plane, weak at the knees and so sure I did not want to fly home, it was about as clear a wake-up call as you can imagine. I had always made myself fly, thinking it was the easiest and quickest option, all the while ignoring my anxiety that started the moment I stepped on the plane, and only ending when I met the ground again.

But then I drove home, staring out the window in awe at the landscapes I would have only looked upon impassively if I’d flown. I felt like I was seeing the country for the first time, even though I’d flown over it so many times. And maybe that’s one of the biggest benefits of not flying--you realize just how much you are a part of the earth when you exist on its level, not hovering above.