“I got on the plane.” -Rachel Green

It’s been almost four years.

Four years since I walked onto the plane at the Norfolk, Virginia airport. It was the first of what would be two business trips in just a few weeks.

I was a marketing writer for a healthcare company — a big, fancy Fortune Fifty one — but the opportunity to tell stories as an in-house videographer for the Medicaid team graciously landed in my lap.

The task for me, that day, was a simple one: get on a a plane to San Antonio, Texas alongside my boss, and tell the story of David’s Legacy Foundation, an organization our company was giving financial support to.

I was also newly pregnant, and was feeling all of those first trimester feelings of exhaustion and nausea. But the chance to grow and get out of the office for a few days was calling my name. I was beyond excited.

The day before my flight, I’d had my eight-week checkup with my OB. Routine. Same old. Ultrasound. A reminder to avoid deli meats, sushi, eliminate wine and limit caffeine. I’d done it all before with my first-born.

Easy breezy.

But this time. This time the ultrasound clerk’s face fell the longer we were in that dark little room together. She went from sunshine cheer to oddly silent.

No squeaks of the strip of black and white photos printing in the room. No words. Just the crinkles of the paper on the chair.

Finally, the tech instructed me to grab my things and we headed out the door together into my doctor’s office.

There, the doctor said that the tech couldn’t detect a heartbeat on the ultrasound. We talked about a few options about how to best move forward; all clinical, matter-of-fact rationalizations for a life that was so tender, so precious.

I was crushed, but mostly confused.

I walked out of the office in a daze and did the only thing I could think to do: head to the grocery store. I entered in, my heart torn and bitter, angered by every stranger who made me alter my course or didn’t acknowledge my existence.

After all, I’d lost a baby and still had the wherewithal to be decent to others — what was their excuse? What right did they have to ignore the aroma of grief that was following me and threatening to swallow me whole?

Couldn’t they see it?

Couldn’t they hear it?

Didn’t they notice it following behind me like a stray cat?

I bought a few items that day: travel sized toothpaste. Vitamin water. Probably a bottle of sour, white wine and headed home.

And that night I began actively miscarrying.

But the trip! The video! The big opportunity! David’s Legacy!

I had a choice: call my boss that night and explain or simply pack my bag, focus on making it through the next 72 hours and get on that plane.

I got on the plane.

It wasn’t easy to float through the day as though everything was normal. As though there wasn’t a nagging voice, a reminder of what my body was experiencing at every moment.

But, I got on the plane.

I didn’t know that plane ride would carry me — to Texas, certainly — and to a new perspective entirely.

David’s Legacy Foundation

It was a non-profit organization founded by a mother who’d lost her thirteen-year-old son to suicide — a direct result of cyberbullying.

Since his tragic death, she’d been working nonstop to spread awareness of cyberbullying’s effects and lobbying to Texan legislators to create laws not only protecting minors from cyberbullying, but to implement legal action for those who perpetuate harassment online.

The event she was hosting was a conference for San Antonio-area students to learn about cyberbullying and to talk about healthy ways to deal with the effects of unkind words spoken over you — whether digital or in person.

I traipsed around the event with my DSLR capturing shots of children listening to guest speakers, participating in group activities, scribbling in their notebooks.

And I realized: at some point, one day, this mother decided to get on the plane.

Not a literal plane, of course. But she entered a new era, a realm where she’d help others in crisis while embarking on a new journey. Through her unspeakable grief. Through the unjust loss of her son. Through the anger, and court dates, the tears, the thoughts and prayers and countless, “I’m-sorry-for-your-loss” platitudes…

Through it all, she got on the plane.

She created something meaningful in spite of, and even through, her tragedy.

In her world, reform became a soulmate for grief. And as a result, she created something that truly matters.
And even though that trip was emotionally and physically challenging as I battled the loss of what would be the first of three consecutive pregnancies, I was honored to witness the strength of a woman who had suffered so greatly and yet refused to allow the powerful tide of tragedy to wash over her without it bringing deep and important purpose to shore.

What a gift she brought to the world.

It was deeply humbling. A wakeup call. Not that my circumstances in that moment didn’t matter in comparison, but that there could always be hope and work that matters greatly in the midst of them.

Since then, I’ve kept my eyes wide open to other women who get on the plane. Every day. In spite of injustice. In spite of their grief. To create something meaningful.

May we all, in our own time, get on our own planes and accept our mission and calling — no matter where life takes us.