Still Learning

I got to the airport early. That was the plan. Give myself extra time because everything takes longer now. The fluorescent lights were already loud. The rolling of suitcase wheels, the overlapping announcements, the constant movement of people who all seemed to know exactly where they were going—each of it landed heavier than it used to.

At the bag-drop kiosk I stood in front of the screen trying to follow the steps. Print the bag tag. It should have been simple. Tap here. Confirm there. But the instructions kept sliding past me. I had to read them twice, then a third time, while the machine waited and the line behind me grew. When the sticky tag finally printed, I turned it over and stared at the tiny printed directions on the back: how to peel, where to stick, which way the barcode should face. My hands felt clumsy. The words didn’t arrange themselves the way they used to. I stood there longer than I wanted to, peeling and smoothing the tag onto the bag like I was learning a skill for the first time. I started to walk away and the person behind had to tell me I wasn't done and it was asking to print my boarding pass still… guess I need that too… smh.

By the time I reached the TSA line the fatigue had already settled in. Not the tiredness of a short night’s sleep. This was the deeper kind that comes from processing too much at once—light, sound, signs pointing in every direction, bodies moving around me. Each step forward cost a little more energy than the last.

At the bins I froze again. What goes in? Don’t take laptops out here? Shoes can stay on? But the belt has to come off. I watched the people ahead of me, trying to copy them, while a TSA agent barked the same instructions on a loop. The volume of his voice cut through everything else. I was already flustered, already holding up a busy line of people who had places to be, and the noise made the next decision harder. I emptied what I thought was everything into the bin, stepped forward, and then realized—pockets. I had forgotten my pockets completely. I had to turn around, go back, dig out my phone and a wallet and whatever else was still in there while the line waited.

I’m sorry.

I’m new to this life. I know I look like an adult standing in the security line with a boarding pass and a suitcase. But inside I’m still relearning the basics, the way a toddler does—slowly, awkwardly, one small instruction at a time. The world moves at full speed. My brain is still catching up. Some mornings the airport is just the place where that gap becomes impossible to hide.

When I got in the airport I learned there's a program called the sunflower disability program that makes it so that staff understands you have an invisible disability and can help accommodate. Too late, the hardest part was done, my gate was straight ahead, and boarding had begun. There's nothing simple anymore.