I’m heading out on a trip I’ve been looking forward to—something important, something meaningful. Not a vacation, really, but an investment in my relationship. I’ll write more about that another time.
For now, all you need to know is this: it started unraveling before it even began.
When I first booked the flights, I didn’t realize how tight the layover was. There was basically zero margin for error. I’d been anxious about it all week, refreshing the itinerary, weighing bad options—too expensive, too complicated, too late to change.
Then this morning, in the middle of my workout, the notification hit: flight delayed. Cue the spiral.
I called the airline. Canceled the original flight. Booked a one-way through a different city. Then canceled that. Rebooked a round trip again. Lost money on the connecting airline. Burned time, energy, peace of mind.
And then? The new flight got delayed too. Twice. We’re back in the same position—hoping we make the connection. No guarantees.
At some point, I just stopped. Sat there in the airport, staring at the departures board, asking myself: What am I doing? Is this worth it? All this scrambling, all this stress—was any of it actually useful?
Here’s what I’m starting to take away:
You can’t cheat time. When you try to outsmart the margins, they catch up to you—with interest. Worrying twice doesn’t buy control. I spent the whole week stressed about this connection. And now that it’s happening? I’m stressed again. Double charge, no added value. Sometimes, you just have to let it go. Not in a passive way, but in the sense of accepting your limits. There was almost nothing I could do this week to change the outcome. But I paid in anxiety anyway.
This trip already felt like a stretch—financially, logistically, even emotionally. But I told myself it mattered. That it was worth it.
And now, on the verge of missing a night at the hotel and watching money evaporate through bad luck and worse planning, I’m wondering: Does effort still count when it leads to chaos?
Or maybe a better question is this:
If I only feel good when I’m in control—what happens to the version of me that shows up when I’m not?
Because that’s the version on this flight. Tired. Scrambled. Still hoping we gain a few minutes in the air. Still holding out for a clean landing in a trip that’s already gone sideways.
Long Short Way 