The Quiet After the Flight
On Caregiving, Self-Care, and the Strange Relief of Letting Go (for a Little While)
Jordan’s flight to Florida left at 11:47 a.m.
My son, who’s autistic and thrives on precision, doesn’t trust “plenty of time.” To him, plenty is just a synonym for not enough.
We live forty-five minutes from the airport, so I suggested we leave at nine to give us plenty of time. Within seconds, he launched into a full logistical breakdown of potential catastrophes: traffic, accidents, road work, lane closures, detours, maybe a rogue armadillo.
He proposed eight. I countered with eight-thirty. We compromised—on eight-fifteen.
At 8:05 a.m., we left.
Because at 8:03, he was stalking me in the kitchen—not talking, just hovering—suitcase in hand, fifty-pound backpack strapped to his shoulders, and a larger-than-life fanny pack cinched tightly around his waist like a travel utility belt. His expression said everything: If you’re ready, I’m ready. And I’ve been ready since yesterday.
“Okay,” I said, grabbing my keys. “Let’s just go.”
The drive was mercifully smooth—no armadillos, no detours. Jordan kept up a running commentary, a mix of live traffic updates and theme park facts. By the time we reached the airport, I knew not only which haunted houses were new at Halloween Horror Nights, but also which snacks were returning (fried Oreos), which ones had been discontinued (sadly, the pizza fries), and the exact number of scare zones.
Because Jordan needs help navigating airports, I got my usual gate pass so I could go through security with him. We were early—super early. We settled into the gate area for what felt like the longest pre-flight in modern history.
He talked. I listened.
He planned out every day of his trip with Grammy—Universal, Epic Universe, Islands of Adventure, EPCOT, Animal Kingdom, and a culinary highlight I couldn’t match at home: Waffle House. (“We don’t have that here, Mom, so obviously that’s where we’ll eat first.”)
As boarding time finally approached, Jordan’s energy began to boil over. When they called his group, he jumped up so fast that the weight of the backpack nearly pulled him backward. I steadied him, smiled, and whispered a quiet prayer—for the random person who’d soon be seated next to him for the next two hours and twenty-seven minutes.
And then he was gone.
Just like that, my world grew still.
The house would be quieter soon, but the quiet began the moment he stepped onto the jet bridge. I could feel the shift in my body before I even left the terminal. My shoulders lowered. My breathing slowed. I realized, in that instant, how much of my energy runs on constant, invisible alert.
It’s not fear. And it’s not resentment. It’s readiness.
Readiness to listen.
Readiness to explain.
Readiness to redirect.
Readiness to adapt when life moves faster than he can.
When Jordan’s home, that vigilance hums quietly beneath everything I do—so constant that I forget it’s there. But when he’s away, I feel it leave my body like static dispersing into the air.
And the quiet that follows isn’t emptiness. It’s peace.
There’s always a flicker of guilt in that peace. A whisper that says, You shouldn’t feel relieved. You should miss him already. And I do miss him, deeply. But I’m also learning that loving someone fully doesn’t mean being on all the time.
Sometimes love is the exhale after the airport drop-off.
Sometimes it’s trusting that Grammy’s got this.
Sometimes it’s praying for the stranger in 14C.
When I got home, the house greeted me with stillness. The kind that invites you to sit for a minute and remember who you are when you’re not anticipating someone else’s needs.
I made myself coffee, this time uninterrupted.
No theme park briefings.
No urgent updates on the latest haunted house lineup.
Just the soft hum of quiet—the kind that feels like a blessing, not a void.
And later this week, I’ll get the call: a full trip recap in the style of a sports commentator, complete with park rankings, food reviews, and scare-actor analysis. I’ll laugh, take notes, and slip back into our familiar rhythm.
But for now, I’ll rest.
Because sometimes the most loving thing a caregiver can do
is finally set the suitcase down and breathe.