Growing up, my aunt Lila would always watch the planes cut through the sky and say, “One day, I’ll be up there too.” She talked about it for years, but there was always something—her health, her nerves, or just plain life getting in the way. After her diagnosis, she started talking about it more, but in that wistful, almost joking way people do with bucket list dreams.
A few weeks ago, she finally told us, straight up: “I want to fly. Just once. I want to see what the world looks like from above before I go.” So, my cousin and I got to planning, made the calls, sorted the paperwork, and double-checked her oxygen setup about a hundred times.
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When the day finally came, I could tell she was scared—her hands shaking a little, eyes wide as we wheeled her down the jetway. But when we buckled in and the engines started to rumble, she squeezed my hand and grinned like a kid. As we took off, she pressed her face to the window, watching the ground fall away, and I saw this light in her eyes I hadn’t seen in a long time.
She didn’t say much as the plane climbed higher, but I could feel the weight lifting off her shoulders. For the first time in a long while, she seemed free—like the sky was giving her permission to let go of the burdens that had been dragging her down for years.
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“Look at it,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the hum of the engines. “It’s more beautiful than I ever imagined.”
I leaned over to see the world unfolding below us—a patchwork of fields and rivers, cities that looked like little toy towns, and the endless blue of the ocean stretching to the horizon. It was magical. But it wasn’t just the view that took my breath away—it was the way she looked at it, as if she had discovered a secret about life that no one had told her.
For the next hour, Aunt Lila barely moved from the window. She was so engrossed in the scenery that I couldn’t help but feel like we were both sharing something sacred. This wasn’t just a flight—it was the fulfillment of a dream, one she had carried with her for so long.
But as much as I wanted to be lost in that moment, there was something I couldn’t shake. A feeling deep in my gut that this wouldn’t be the end of the journey we had started together. I couldn’t explain why, but there was a sense that this experience wasn’t just for her—it was for me too. It felt like a turning point, a moment that would change both of our lives in ways we couldn’t foresee.
When we landed, the excitement in Aunt Lila’s face was undeniable. She had been through so much, and yet, here she was, having conquered her fear and lived out her dream. We wheeled her out of the terminal, and she kept turning to look over her shoulder at the plane we had just disembarked.
“I did it,” she said, her voice full of wonder, like she was speaking a secret only she understood. “I really did it.”
We laughed, hugged, and took pictures, celebrating the moment like it was a major achievement—because to us, it was. But in the weeks that followed, something began to feel off. Aunt Lila didn’t seem quite as vibrant as she had that day. Her energy faded quickly, and she spent more time in bed than she had before. Her condition, which had been manageable, now seemed to be progressing faster than anyone anticipated.
I found myself visiting her more often, sitting with her, holding her hand the way I had on the plane. There were moments of silence between us, the kind where you don’t have to speak to understand each other. She would smile at me sometimes, and I knew exactly what she was thinking. But there was also an undeniable sadness in her eyes, like she knew her time was coming to an end.
Then, one afternoon, a week after our flight, she asked me to come closer. I leaned in, and she whispered, “I don’t regret anything. Not the pain, not the tears. But I want to tell you something. Something important.”
I could see she was struggling to find the words. I held my breath, wondering what she was about to say.
“You’re stronger than you think,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t let anyone tell you you’re not enough. Don’t let anyone take your dreams away. And… please, make sure you keep flying. Promise me you’ll keep flying, no matter what.”
I nodded, fighting back tears. The weight of her words hit me hard, and I could feel the emotions welling up inside me. I promised her I would. I promised I would live the life she had always wanted, a life full of freedom, of soaring above the limits that held us down.
But as much as I tried to hold it together, Aunt Lila’s health took another turn for the worse just days later. I stayed by her side, keeping my promise to her in the only way I knew how—by being there, by listening, and by holding onto the memory of that flight.
Then came the day I had feared. Aunt Lila passed away in her sleep, peacefully, with the faintest smile on her face. I wasn’t ready for it. No one ever is. But I found solace in knowing that she had lived her dream, that she had seen the world from above, just as she had always wanted.
A few weeks after her funeral, I was sitting in my living room, going through some old papers when I found a letter. It was in Aunt Lila’s handwriting, addressed to me. My heart raced as I opened it.
The letter read:
“I never told you this, but the flight wasn’t just for me. It was for you too. You’ve always put everyone else first, and I’m proud of you for that. But you have to promise me one thing. Promise me that you won’t stop chasing your dreams. You have to fly, even when it seems impossible. Don’t let fear or doubt keep you grounded. You have a gift, and the world needs to see it. I love you, always.”
The tears came, slow at first, but soon they were flowing freely. It wasn’t just the loss of my aunt that hurt—it was the realization that she had known all along what I needed to hear. She had always known what I was capable of, even when I doubted myself.
Her words stayed with me, and over time, they became my guiding force. I made a decision right then and there that I would keep moving forward, not just for me, but for her too. I started pursuing my own dreams, the ones I had put on hold for so long. And as I did, I began to notice something strange happening. Opportunities I never thought possible began to open up. I received job offers I had once thought were out of reach, I traveled more than I ever had before, and I found myself soaring in ways I hadn’t imagined.
But the real twist came when I was offered a chance to work for a non-profit organization that aimed to provide flights to individuals with terminal illnesses. It was a program that made dreams come true for people who were running out of time, just like Aunt Lila had been. It felt like a sign, a karmic reward for keeping my promise, not just to her, but to myself.
I took the job. And now, every time I see someone take off on a plane, chasing their own dreams, I think of Aunt Lila. I think of the light in her eyes when she saw the world from above. I think of the promise I made to her—and the one I continue to keep.
If you’re reading this and you’re holding back on your dreams, remember that it’s never too late to start. Life is too short to let fear or doubt hold you back. You owe it to yourself to fly, to chase what makes you happy. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll find that the world is waiting for you to take that first step.
Share this story with someone who needs to hear it. Life has a way of surprising us when we least expect it.
