By Monique Farmer
It was mid-March 2019, and the city of New York buzzed with its usual electric hum. I was there to judge national PRSA Silver Anvil public relations awards—an honor, for sure, but also a mental marathon. For 8 hours, I had poured over entries, critiquing strategies, assessing brilliance and immersing myself in the work of the best in the industry. My brain, once sharp, now felt like a sponge saturated with too much water, heavy and slow. Now, all I wanted was to return to Omaha, to the comforting routine of being a wife and mother of three.
My flight was booked, my bags were packed and I boarded the plane with a quiet sense of relief. I settled into my seat, ready for the trip home. I was already imagining the smell of my own sheets and comforter, the moisturizing and ritualistic feeling of a hot shower, and the welcome home hugs from my kids and husband when I walked through the door. But life, it seems, had other plans.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a slight delay due to a minor repair on the aircraft,” the captain announced. Nothing major, he said. “We’ll be on our way soon.” I sighed, sinking deeper into my seat. A delay wasn’t ideal, but I could wait. My patience had held steady through an entire week of deadlines; what was an extra hour?
But an hour became two, and soon, time felt elastic—stretching, distorting, like the plane itself was caught in a web we couldn’t escape. I glanced out the window, watching the ground crew move about, their faces calm, oblivious to the tension mounting inside the cabin. My mind wandered, tracing the invisible lines between safety and trust. Was this really a “minor” repair? Would we actually take off?.
Another announcement. “Flight canceled.” Just like that, my plan unraveled.
The collective groan of passengers filled the cabin like a low rumble of thunder. I could feel the frustration in the air—a thick, palpable thing, almost alive. We were asked to disembark. I glanced at the faces around me: brows furrowed, lips tight, fists clenched in frustration. Everyone wanted to scream at the injustice of it all, the inconvenience, the disappointment.
By the time I reached the gate, it was nearly midnight. The airport staff looked tired, their eyes heavy with the weight of too many complaints and too few solutions. When it was my turn, the gate agent braced herself as if preparing for a storm. Instead, I simply said, “It’s okay. These things happen.”
She blinked, as if my words were an unexpected breeze on a sweltering day. “I wish everyone could be as calm as you,” she said, her voice softening. And in that moment, I realized that calm was a choice. I could choose to fight against the storm of circumstance, or I could let it pass over me, knowing that eventually, all storms do.
I booked a hotel room for the night and decided to treat the unexpected delay as a gift. Another night to myself. No laundry, no cooking, no endless lists of things that needed doing. Just me, New York and time. In the morning, I would face the chaos again—but for now, I slept.
The next morning, refreshed in a way I hadn’t anticipated, I ventured out to Times Square. My trusty old suitcase had finally given up—its wheel barely hanging on like a soldier after too many battles. I decided to find a replacement. I wandered into the Samsung and lost myself in the joy of shopping for something new, something sturdy. I wasn’t in a rush; for the first time in days, I didn’t have anywhere I needed to be—at least not yet. I found the perfect bag and left the store, satisfied.
That’s when it hit me—literally.
The streets had transformed into a river of people. Green everywhere. Shouting, singing, laughing. I had forgotten it was St. Patrick’s Day. Thousands upon thousands of revelers had taken over Times Square. They flowed through the streets like an unstoppable current, pushing, pulling, dragging everyone along. I needed to get back to my hotel, grab my luggage and make it to LaGuardia, but the crowd was thick as molasses. I felt like a mouse in a labyrinth, every path blocked by bodies.
Panic gnawed at the edges of my thoughts. Time was ticking. Every minute spent struggling through the crowd was another minute closer to missing my already rescheduled flight. I gripped my new suitcase like a lifeline, willing myself to stay calm, to focus. But with every step, the anxiety swelled inside me, threatening to spill over. I fumbled for my phone—my only link to the outside world, to an Uber that could whisk me away from this madness. I pressed the button to wake the screen. Nothing.
Dead.
My heart dropped. In that moment, I felt truly alone—adrift in a sea of strangers, my connection to everything familiar cut off. I stood on the sidewalk, surrounded by noise and movement, but utterly still inside. It was as though the world had shrunk down to this one moment, this one decision. What now?
I took a deep breath. The air was cold, bracing. I looked around, my mind racing. I could let the panic take over, let the anxiety swallow me whole, or I could figure this out. I chose the latter. A hotel—if I could just find a hotel, someone there could help me.
I spotted one down the block and rushed over, my heart pounding in my chest. The bellhop outside, sensing my desperation, quickly hailed me a cab. Relief washed over me as I sank into the backseat, giving the driver my hotel address. I made it back with just enough time to transfer my belongings into my new suitcase, plug in my phone for a quick charge and call another Uber to the airport.
By now, I was running on pure adrenaline. The Uber driver understood my urgency and sped through the streets, weaving through traffic like an artist painting a masterpiece. When we finally arrived at LaGuardia, I had minutes—just minutes. I bolted through security, shoes barely on, clutching my boarding pass. I reached the gate, breathless and saw a familiar face—the same gate agent from the night before.
“Did the flight takeoff already,” I asked, out of breath.
“Honey, the flight is set for takeoff. No more passengers can go on. It’s closed up,” the agent said. Then, her face changed. Her eyebrow raised, “Wait. You were here last night,” she said. She glanced at her watch. “We have to get you on this plane.”
She grabbed her radio and said,” Follow me.” Within minutes, she had convinced the crew to reopen the door for me. As I boarded the plane, relief washed over me like a warm wave. I had made it—barely, but I had made it.
As I settled into my seat, the events of the last 24 hours swirled in my mind. I realized something important: life doesn’t always go according to plan. Sometimes, it throws you into a sea of obstacles, and you can either fight against the current or let go, trusting that you’ll find your way through. Patience—real, deep patience—isn’t passive. It’s an active choice. A choice to stay calm, to breathe, to trust.
And kindness, I realized, is what makes that choice possible. Treat others with grace and more often than not, grace will find its way back to you—sometimes when you need it most.