I always kept an emergency pad in my purse. It wasn’t meant for me, of course, but for those “just in case” scenarios that you hope never happen, like helping a friend in need, dealing with an unforeseen event, or maybe even helping my daughter one day. It sat there quietly among the pencils, receipts, and hand sanitizer, a sign of silent preparation that I never thought I would need. At least not like this. Not on a plane, not in the middle of a flight, and definitely not when my daughter’s life changed in ten seconds.
We were in the Midwest, midway through a two-hour flight to see her cousins. Talia, my eleven-year-old daughter, was wearing earbuds and laughing at something on her tablet. She turned to look at me, and her face was pale but peaceful. Then she said, “Dad…” in a voice that was just above a whisper. I guess my period has started.
Her voice broke at the edges. It wasn’t panic yet, but it was very close. It was like a kid who was terrified and lost when they got to a new area and needed something to grasp on to. I halted for half a second because my mind was racing: Is this her first? Does she know what to do? What if she’s leaking? What can I say that won’t upset or embarrass her? Then my instinct told me what to do. I slipped the pad out of my backpack and murmured softly, “It’s okay, pumpkin.” Go ahead. “I’m right here.”
She accepted it and almost floated down the aisle, her eyes darting from seat to seat and one hand tightly holding the front of her hoodie. I couldn’t move as she went into the small bathroom on the plane. The noise of the jet engines and the seatbelt warning chime didn’t mean anything to me anymore. I couldn’t stop thinking about my child in a small, clean bathroom, facing something so private and vulnerable, miles above the ground.
Minutes passed. Too many.
After that, a flight attendant came up close and seemed unhappy. “Sir, your daughter is trying to find you.” She seems upset.
I walked into the aisle and said sorry to the person next to me. My chest tightened as I did this. I retreated to the back, and the seconds seemed to last forever. I knocked on the restroom door softly and leaned in close, lowering my voice. “Pumpkin?” It’s your dad. Are you okay?
A break. Then a thin, weak voice from behind the door murmured, “It leaked.” The liquid got into my pants.
I closed my eyes for a moment. I didn’t feel angry; I felt a quiet sadness that only parents can understand—the pain of seeing your child feel embarrassed, ashamed, or uncomfortable. If you could, you would do everything yourself. I said in a quiet voice, “That’s okay, sweetheart.” “That’s okay. Do you want me to get your sweater from the top?”
I took a light sniff. “Yes.”
I ran to her door wearing the blue sweater that I usually wore on flights that were too hot. When the door opened, a flight attendant helped me hold up a blanket so that people couldn’t see me. My daughter went outside, and her eyes were cloudy and her bottom lip was shaking. She was trying to be courageous, but she was only a kid and the world seemed too big for her all of a sudden. I handed her the hoodie, and she tied it tightly around her waist. She was too embarrassed to look me in the eye.
I didn’t care about my knees, the weird angle, or the folks who were trying not to look but were nonetheless when I crouched down in that tight space. I clasped her hand, which was still a little damp from her nervous sweat, and murmured, “You did great, Talia.” You did it.
She didn’t utter a word. She only nodded, blinked quickly, and held my hand tightly, just like she used to when she was four and afraid of the dark. That squeeze meant a lot more than words. It was faith. Gratitude. Thank God. Love.
We quietly returned to our chairs, and I let her rest her head on my shoulder. She put her earbuds back in and the video was only playing in the background. I could feel her breathing slow down, her body relax, and the storm pass.
She said, “Thanks, Dad,” without looking up when we got there. I just smiled, nodded, and said, “Anytime, sweetheart.” I’ll always be there for you.
And I do. All the time.
That flight made me remember that being ready is more than simply having the appropriate things; it also means being there on time. Don’t worry. No shame. All you need is love, being there, and being patient. You might also want to bring a hoodie and a pad with you just in case.
