Most people go through childhood viewing their parents as human adjacent. As a kid I thought my parents never had a human emotion until they drank too much, or when we attended funerals. Really though, the first time you witness your parents crack under pressure, you can never go back to seeing them in that untouchable state.

The first time I saw my mother break her picture perfect image was when I was nine years old in the New Orleans airport going to New York City for the first time. Now, my mother and I never got along growing up for a multitude of reasons, yet there was one thing that would bring us together: musical theatre. We loved everything about it, and I’d never seen my mother more proud of me than when I was on a stage performing. She would always tell me, “Your talent is God given, Claire.” 

Well long story short, I had scored an audition for Broadway’s Matilda musical, and I begged and begged my mother to take me to New York so I could audition in person. She told me no for a whole month, until my ninth birthday rolled around and she surprised me with plane tickets. It would be my first time in New York City, but half of that excitement came from the fact that it would be the longest amount of time I would have ever been on a plane. I was obsessed with the airport and airplanes as a child because it was such an exciting feeling to wake up super early in the morning, drive to the nearest airport, and get to wander around a bustling building (something a redneck like me hardly ever saw in person). 

So the long awaited day finally arrived, and I hardly got enough sleep from all my excitement. Luckily, the trip from my hometown to the New Orleans airport was about an hour drive so I planned to sleep in the backseat. As my eyes were closed and I was listening to the mumble of the morning radio, my dad whispered to my mother, “Are you sure you’ll be fine?” 

“Yes. It all happened so long ago,” she said. 

“I just don’t want a repeat of what happened last time.” The pause was thick. “I won’t be there to hide you from her.” 

“No…it won’t happen again.” My mother snapped at him.

They didn’t speak the rest of the drive. 

When my dad pulled up to the airport, I looked around at all the people getting dropped off as well. They all looked like they had done this 100 times before: unloading their luggage, telling the driver goodbye, and then heading inside. Nine-year-old me, on the other hand, just followed my mom around relying on that primal instinct of imitation. 

Checking in took forever. My mother and I braved the line to the Southwest counter, and after what felt like a lifetime we were ready for the hard part. We faced TSA. I remember being almost scared of the TSA agents, who were so stoic and assertive. I remained quiet as they checked through people’s things. When it was our turn, I just let my mother guide me around. 

Collecting my green and pink Vera Bradly backpack, I asked, “How come those workers aren’t very nice?” 

“They’re making sure they protect us from any bad people. They’ve been like that since the day your Uncle Chris died.” I had known about what happened. Even before we learned about it in class, my parents made sure I knew all about my uncle/their close friend, who was a firefighter and gave his life saving 136 people on 9/11. 

I could tell my mother had been tense. I thought maybe it was because of Uncle Chris.

We sat in silence until our boarding group was called, and when I looked over at my mom she had her eyes shut so tight the wrinkled folds in her eyelids were too many to count. I hadn’t seen my mom look like this before, as if she was in distress, about to cry. 

“Mom,” I shook her leg. “We need to line up.”

She stood up, grabbed her purse, and made her way straight to the boarding line. She moved as if she was on autopilot, and after awkwardly making our way to the front, she began to shake her head quicker and quicker, grabbing onto her purse straps tighter and tighter. I heard her whisper “please please please please” about a hundred times. I wondered who she was talking to. God? 

“Mom?” 

She continued her hushed plea until we made it to the attendant.

“Ma’am are you okay?” 

“Please, I don’t wanna do it.” My mother started to sob. Her southern accent came out thicker than I had ever heard it before. Her breath became shallow and quick, and she was still begging, “Please, please, please.” 

She was sat down in a nearby chair, but I didn’t move. 

I didn’t go to comfort her, or even ask if she was okay. 

Everything else was in motion, but it seemed as if I were stuck in time. 

I swear I didn’t blink. 

I didn’t even ask myself what was happening. 

But one thing was for certain: my mother is actually human. 

I had my first panic attack when I was eight and afterwards, my parents took me to the doctor. I was diagnosed with anxiety, and put on meds that have been working ever since. But as I have grown up, I have reflected: Why me? Where did this come from? Often I think of that dark morning at the New Orleans airport, and remind myself that my mother is in fact human, and her anxiety is mine as well. 

As for the New York trip, it turns out my mother forgot her “chill pill” in her checked bag; she couldn’t get on the plane without it. She’d swear to you they weren't drugs, they were “sleeping pills” and “the Lord don’t mind those.” Eventually, her bag with her pills were delivered, and though I have never seen her take them, I could tell she ascended high in the sky that morning. The trip was unforgettable in the best way. But my mother and I still pretend like the whole debacle at the airport didn’t happen.

But who could blame her? She’d tell you, it’s all God given.