Traveling by plane isn’t something I enjoy too much. Being crammed like sardines into rabbit-sized seats next to strangers that may or may not smell good isn't exactly my idea of a good time. The exhaustion that took revenge on my brain from three midterms that week didn’t help my anxiety either, but I wasn’t going to miss this trip. I wasn’t going to miss one of my best friends from high school get married; I put on my big girl pants, shotgunned an energy drink, and ushered myself onto the plane.

I followed the typical plane boarding routine, nothing special about it. First: find somewhere to sit, preferably a window. Second: put baggage in the overhead compartment and under the seat in front of me. Third: pray that no one sits in the middle seat next to you. Fourth: pout when someone sits in the middle seat. Fifth: put on your noise-canceling headphones and fall asleep as the plane takes off and rocks soothingly in the wind.

Eyelids heavy, they closed, and quickly, I slipped into a dream. I dreamed of how far I’ve come in my life. I relived everything—from the beginning, from the start of my treatment, the moment I look at myself in the mirror and didn’t see myself anymore but an emaciated shell. I remember that moment; petrified because I no longer saw myself in the mirror. I relived the trauma of suffering through my deep-rooted depression without my coping mechanism. I remembered crying, losing my weight in tears. And then I remembered what it felt like to be free, free of the addiction, free of the pressure, free to be me. The bliss wiped a smile across my face. I remembered it all. Then I was jolted awake.

The plane violently shook and nervousness emanated about the cabin. Passengers forcefully reached for their buckles as the fasten seatbelt sign blinked on. Boom. Shake. Shake. The plane bounced in the air like it was a trampoline. It bobbed up and down and shook side to side. I clenched the armrest as sweat infected my palms. Scared, my eyes closed. Eyebrows furrowed above my locked eyes. Was this the end? Another bump sent gasps echoing through the cabin, but it was almost inaudible above the pounding of my heart in my ears. I clenched the armrest tighter, and a single tear fell from my sealed eyes: I don’t want to die.

Then, without any warning, the plane slowly shifted back to a soothing rock. My muscles relaxed, my heart fell back into my chest, and my hand released the armrest, still moist with sweat. I’m glad that’s over. The plane rocked me back into a nice comfortable sleep, a dreamless sleep until the plane landed about an hour later.

I attended the wedding and thought nothing of this little turbulent time, but a few weeks later, I realized something: I’m afraid to die. For the first time in a long time, I am afraid to die. I’m scared that life might end. I have a future to look forward to filled with relationships, passions, and love. I want to be here. I plan to be here. I choose to be here. For the first time, I’m happy to be here, present, on this earth, right here, right now. I’m happy to be alive, and I can’t wait to see what the future holds.