I don’t remember anything about the first time I flew by airplane. Not where I was going, where I was leaving from, what time it was, or how long that ride lasted. If I asked my parents, I doubt they’d remember either.

It’s not like it wasn’t noteworthy, but after you’ve flown as much as my family has, you don’t remember flights based on firsts. Instead, you remember based on what happened within them.

And depending on what happened, that flight might be the most memorable because of how it affects you years later.

Like that one flight I took when I was nine where I had gotten up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night. I had gone without waking my mother—confident, and oh so naive—expecting a typical trip. 

I entered the small compartment and did my business, but when I went to return to my seat, I found the sliding door refused to budge. I pushed and pushed with all my scrawny, toddler might, but no matter how hard I tried, I could not open the door.

At that point, I started panicking. I pounded my tiny fists on the door, asking through the wall if anyone could help me. When no one responded, I tried again and again. And then, as though someone above decided to play a prank on me, it went from bad to worse.

The whole compartment began to shake, jerking me up and down, side to side, as the startled sounds of people echoed through the broken door. The bathroom light flickered, the sound of small dinging ran throughout the plane, and suddenly, my panicked pleading turned into panicked, bloodcurdling screaming. 

When I emerged from the bathroom—violently shaking like a cat that had just been dragged out of a lake—I found myself faced with two extremely memorable expressions.

My mother wore this expression of mixed motherly pity and embarrassment, concerned with my well-being while simultaneously being fully aware that every eye possible in the aircraft was staring at us. And, the airplane stewardess, hilariously, had this expression that looked like a mixture of horrified surprise and uncomfortable pity. 

I could practically hear her saying, “Yikes, lady. You’ve got some pipes on that kid. Good luck dealing with the repercussions of this incident.”

From then on, I developed an irrational fear and anxiety of airplane bathrooms. I always asked my mother to accompany me, and if she couldn’t, I simply tried my best to wait for the plane to land before racing off to find an on-ground bathroom instead.

This incident haunted me for years, and only recently have I felt comfortable sharing my unusual childhood fear with friends. But the main thing I take away from this story is that I shouldn’t let something bad that happened to me early on affect my everyday life.

Don’t get me wrong, I still feel some sort of uncomfortable anxiety when I get up on a flight to use the restroom, but I’ve gotten better at managing my uncontrollable fears with my aspirations and passions in life.