Welcome to My Valley
They’ve Clearly Never Been to My Valley
The largest plane I ever flew on was a Lockheed L-1011 TriStar.
Twice, actually. Once from Jacksonville to San Francisco, and another time from Hartsfield–Atlanta to Seattle.
I remember staring out the window in complete disbelief. Even as a younger man, I understood that aircraft was absolutely enormous. On the ground it looked like a skyscraper laid on its side. It was nothing but metal, seats, luggage, fuel, machinery, and people. Thousands and thousands of pounds of dead weight. And yet somehow it accelerated down a runway and simply left the earth.
Even now, I don’t fully understand how something that massive becomes airborne. I’ve heard the explanations about lift, thrust, drag, and aerodynamics, and I nod politely when people explain it to me. Then I watch a plane take off and think to myself that it still feels like sorcery.
Maybe I was never just fascinated by airplanes. Maybe I was fascinated by leaving.
To this day, one of the strongest scent memories I have is jet fuel. Some people associate home with fresh-cut grass, their grandmother’s kitchen, or the perfume their mother wore before church. For me, it’s jet fuel. One deep breath instantly transports me to Hartsfield–Atlanta or Phoenix Sky Harbor.
In Atlanta, the smell always feels stronger, probably because that airport is so enormous. It’s basically its own city. There is always movement: escalators humming, suitcases rolling across tile floors, flight announcements echoing overhead, reunions happening at gates, hurried goodbyes unfolding near security checkpoints. I love all of it.
When I fly west, I leave from Golden Triangle Regional Airport on the first flight of the morning, usually at six o’clock. That airport feels sleepy at that hour, but by the time I land in Atlanta the world feels fully awake. I usually have a two-and-a-half-hour layover, and I’ve turned that time into ritual: chocolate for the plane from Savannah's Candy Kitchen, breakfast somewhere, coffee at least twice, and if I’m especially ahead of schedule, a ride on the plane train that lasts a little longer than necessary.
I know that last part sounds ridiculous, but I genuinely enjoy watching first-time travelers experience that train. It does not gently ease into motion. It launches. Last summer, a man stepped onboard at the same time I did. He looked to be in his thirties and carried himself with the unmistakable confidence of someone entirely too cool to be inconvenienced. He glanced around and surely noticed everyone else holding onto rails and straps. He chose not to.
The train took off, and so did his dignity.
He hit the floor almost immediately, nearly taking out a kid with a Trolls bookbag. Who knew to cling to one of the poles, by the way.
I never saw him again, but I feel reasonably confident he held onto something the next time he boarded.
Georgia used to feel like home, but I’ve realized it was never really the state itself. It was the people. It was family members who filled houses with laughter during the holidays, voices drifting from kitchens, and ordinary days that somehow felt extraordinary simply because of who was present.
Many of those people have passed on now. Others have chosen not to keep me in their lives. I cherish the first group, and I respect the second.
Mississippi, on the other hand, has never felt like home. Not really. I’ve been here since 2001, and when I first arrived, I truly believed it would be temporary, just a steppingstone toward whatever came next. I simply didn’t realize how long I would be standing on that stone.
But if I’m being honest, I wasn’t in any condition to build a future back then. Alcohol did all of my thinking for me. It made my decisions, shaped my priorities, and swept me along in directions I never would have chosen with a clear mind. There were years when I genuinely didn’t believe I would live long enough to need a long-term plan. That’s difficult to admit, even now.
Today, I’m starting my sixth year of sobriety, and I see things very differently. The shame and blame are gone. The regret is fading. What remains is gratitude and the quiet realization that I am worth taking a chance on.
That realization changed everything.
Maybe I’ll live in Phoenix one day. I believe I will. But even if life takes a different turn, I’ll keep finding my way back. Some places awaken something in you that cannot be put back to sleep.
If you don’t have a key, or at least the courage to knock, doors rarely open. And at the end of the day, no one will ever be able to say I didn’t try. No one will ever be able to say I didn’t pour my entire soul into chasing the life I wanted.
People often write songs, poems, and stories that use valleys as symbols of hardship. They represent grief, struggle, and seasons of life people are forced to endure.
They’ve clearly never been to my valley.
The Valley of the Sun taught me that valleys can also be places of warmth, light, reinvention, and second chances.
And sometimes, if you’re very lucky, they can teach you how to come home.
My valley even has its own harbor.