Three years ago, I missed my flight because I ran to the wrong terminal. After a long work trip, I was fatigued in every way: mentally, emotionally, and physically. I had been living on autopilot, doing everything I was “supposed” to do: working hard, meeting deadlines, and pretending I liked the route I had chosen.
But it all hit me at once that morning at the airport. I had left my hotel late and spilled coffee over my shirt. In my panic, I ended up at the wrong terminal. I figured it out after the gate was closed. I missed my flight.
I was shocked and angry, and my fury finally came out. I cried. Not the quiet, respectable crying that you can hide behind sunglasses, but the kind where your shoulders shake, your tears run freely, and you can’t pretend you had it all together anymore. I sat down in the nearest empty chair without even looking to see who was next to me.
Then the man next to me calmly said, “Are you okay?”
His voice was nice and not overbearing. I thought I would wave farewell, but instead I nodded and said, “I missed my flight.” He smiled gently and said, “I’ve done that before.” It might be a good thing. I wanted to be honest because of the way he spoke—patient, kind, and curious. But I told him more.
We talked for over an hour. We had a good talk. Talk about things that are real. He mentioned he had been working in finance for more than 10 years, which is a job with a lot of stress, rewards, and burnout. The fact that his sister had to go to the hospital after a mental health crisis changed everything for him. She was alive, but it changed everything for him. He quit his work, simplified his life, and began to travel. He performed some freelance work here and there, wrote when he could, and tried to be more aware of each day.
I told him that I used to write poetry before college, before I got into business, and before I lost track of what made me feel alive. I informed him that it had been a long time since I had written anything real. I told him how stuck I felt and how tired I was of going for things I didn’t really want.
“Check out The Blue Finch Café if you ever go to Santa Fe,” he said to me before getting on his rebooked plane. After that, he was gone. That’s all. No names. No communication. It was a rare, pure human moment that felt both random and essential.
It took months. Things kept happening. But that day, something shifted within me. His words kept coming back to me in quiet times, which made me start writing again, at first focused on small, simple works. I write poems on napkins, in notebooks, and on my phone’s Notes app. The more I wrote, the more I realized how long I had been quiet.
I did something stupid in the end, or maybe it was brave. I quit my job. I got ready to leave by selling some things, packing a bag, and buying a one-way ticket to Santa Fe. I told myself I was only going to stop by. Just to make sure. If it exists, you might want to look for that café.
It did.
The Blue Finch Café was in a quiet corner of downtown. The paint was cracked and the windows were large, letting in golden light. The smell of fresh bread and strong coffee filled the air. The walls were covered in fliers from the neighborhood and local art. There was a small stage in the back and a chalkboard that showed what was going on that week. It was Thursday when the open mic night happened.
I was afraid. But I did sign up. As I read a new poetry, my hands and voice were shaking. When I was done, the room was quiet, and then there was a soft round of applause. I felt like I was breathing again after years of holding my air.
Colin, the owner of the café, came up to me after that. “That was beautiful,” he said. “We make a zine.” Would you like to send something in?
Three submissions turned into one. Then came a volume of poems. Then, a little press published my work. Over time, my life altered. I started to run workshops. Reading out loud. I was showing youngsters how to utilize poetry to understand the world. I wasn’t making six figures, but I was making something better: a point.
Two years later, I was asked to go to a writers’ retreat in Taos. I almost didn’t go. But I thought I should. As I looked over the list of guests, one name stood out: Navin Singh. It made me remember something. A quick search confirmed it: he had created a major investment firm and was the kind of person who wrote business pieces. Then, just a few years ago, he stopped being in the public eye. No justification was given. There is no scandal. Just… gone.
On the first day of the retreat, I spotted him. He was sitting next to the fire with a thermos in his lap. I knew who he was before he said anything. “Wrong terminal, girl,” he said.
I laughed. “Man with a blue finch.”
We talked for a long time. This time, we told each other who we were. We stayed in touch. We didn’t have a romantic connection; instead, we had a serene and supportive one based on a deep understanding. We would communicate every now and then, give each other writing tips, and propose books.
Months later, I met his sister. Life. Kind. Getting better. We had lunch together, and she told me something over coffee that I still remember. “Navin talks about you,” she said. “He says you remind him of me before everything.” Before it turned dark. That meeting helped him remember what hope was.
I wasn’t prepared for it. I hadn’t done anything brave before. I still didn’t know what to do. I had just been there. But sometimes, simply being there is all you need. Being with someone might sometimes help them remember something they forgot they had.
Now I live in Santa Fe. I work as a writer at the Blue Finch Café. Every Thursday night, I host an open mic, and I always leave one empty chair at the back.
Now I know that life is full of missed flights and wrong terminals. That chance meetings can be the start of something big. I now know that small things may change whole lives.
And sometimes the path we should take is not the one we planned. We mistakenly pick it because it has a story and the name of a stranger we don’t know yet.
