I always book row 18—window seat, fewer eyes. But when I got there, someone was already in the aisle. I squeezed past, feeling the seatbelt extender in my hoodie like a secret. Like shame.
The seat was tight. I couldn’t stop sweating. Then a kid peeked over the seat and asked, “Are you gonna break the plane?”
I froze. Everyone heard. The man beside me pressed the call button. “She doesn’t look comfortable,” he told the flight attendant. “Can she be moved?”
Minutes later, I was in a roomier seat. A quiet woman beside me handed me a granola bar. “Travel makes everyone hungry,” she said.
When we landed, she told me, “Don’t let people like that boy dim your light.”
At my hotel, I looked in the mirror—and looked away.
The next day, I gave a talk on accessibility. Afterward, a man in a wheelchair said, “You made me feel seen.” I finally believed it.
That night, I ate alone at a cozy restaurant. The guy from the plane worked there. “I used to be over 400 pounds,” he said. “I just wanted to help.”
Back at the hotel, I looked in the mirror again. This time, I didn’t turn away.
On the flight home, I asked for what I needed. No shame. A nearby mom gently corrected her son: “We’re kind on planes.” I smiled.
Because people will stare. Some will judge. But others will see you—and offer kindness.
You’re not broken. And you’re not alone.
The world can still be soft—if we choose to see each other.
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