In the Staging Area

Most people talk about the Hartsfield–Atlanta Airport as though they survived it.

And I understand why.

It’s loud. Massive. Constantly moving. There are children crying, boarding groups being announced, suitcases clipping unsuspecting ankles, and at least one person every hour who appears to believe they can outrun time itself. If you’ve ever found yourself racing through Concourse B while carrying your sanity in one hand and an overpriced sandwich in the other, I understand your frustration.

But I’ve never feared that airport.

I thrive there.

In fact, I’ve spent more time than I care to admit happily planted in one of its public seating areas with a backpack at my feet, a snack in one hand, a drink in the other, completely entertained by the rhythm unfolding around me. Families reunite. Business travelers speed walk past me with expressions that suggest world peace may depend on how quickly they get to their departure gate. Pilots move with calm precision. Gate agents somehow maintain order in what often looks like beautifully organized chaos.

And honestly? The food and drinks are still cheaper than at most movie theaters these days, so I consider the whole thing a bargain. It’s dinner and a show.

What most people see as stress, I see as choreography.

Above ground, it can feel chaotic. Beneath the surface (quite literally) there is structure. The Plane Train moves people with remarkable efficiency. Bags disappear into unseen tunnels and somehow reappear exactly where they are supposed to be. Thousands of employees work behind the scenes in roles most travelers will never notice. There is repetition. Infrastructure. Connectivity. Stability.

Precision.

That place works because so much is happening that most of us will never see.

And lately, that feels a lot like my own life.

On the surface, I probably look like I’m being pulled in ten directions at once. There are books to write. A website to build. blog posts to publish. work responsibilities to manage. health goals I’ve committed to. future plans quietly taking shape. Dreams that feel both very close and very far away depending on the day.

There are moments when even I look at my own life and wonder how all of these moving parts are supposed to come together.

But beneath the visible chaos, I’ve been building systems.

Sobriety gave me structure.

Discipline gave me consistency.

Writing gave me purpose.

Faith gave me patience.

And maybe most importantly, life has taught me how to move forward even when I can’t see the full map.

When I’m standing on the Plane Train and there isn’t a seat available, I always do the same thing.

I lean in the direction I’m headed.

It sounds small, but it has become instinct. I plant my feet and lean forward toward where I know I’m going instead of backward toward where I’ve already been. I grab a rail or a strap for balance—not because I’m weak, but because I understand that confidence and support can exist in the same moment.

I know where I’m going.

I also know none of us get there completely alone.

That tiny act has become an accidental philosophy for how I live now.

Lean toward what’s next.

Hold on when you need to.

Trust the infrastructure you’ve built.

And understand that not everything meaningful is visible from where you’re standing.

These days, my life can feel as hectic as the Atlanta airport on a holiday weekend. From the surface, it may look messy. Loud. Uncertain.

But I’ve learned not to panic when I can’t see every moving piece.

Some things are being handled beneath the surface.

Some doors are opening that I cannot see yet.

Some baggage is being routed exactly where it needs to go.

Some connections are still being made.

And when I finally arrive at the life I’ve been working toward, I believe something with my whole heart:

Everything I am supposed to have will arrive when I do.