My Voice Said “No Problem,” My Brain Started Screaming

There was a passenger speaking to me in Spanish.

I didn’t understand everything ... just fragments, gestures. The person next to them said they were trying to explain something. So I smiled. Nodded. Held their hand as they shook mine, as if to say, “I’m glad you’re here.”

Then the grip tightened. Hard.
And they slumped ... unconscious ... right into my lap. Mid-flight. Final descent.

What the heck was going on?

It was a small aircraft ... shoulder to shoulder, no room to react ... and now I was pinned. This passenger’s full weight pressing into me, my body locked into the seat. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Could barely think. And yet...

My voice came out steady: “No problem, I got it.”
My hand hit the call button.
My eyes found the other flight attendant, strapped in for landing ... just like me.
My body didn’t flinch. It couldn’t.

But inside?

My brain was screaming.

Every safety regulation, every emergency drill, every voice of every instructor I’d ever had came flooding in. Not as panic... but as muscle memory. As instinct. Like I’d rehearsed this scene a hundred times and my body had taken the lead ... performing while my mind stumbled behind.

I can’t go into the details. Not here.
But what I will say is... it was intense.
When you're in an emergency like that, what feels like ten minutes is really ten seconds.
And those ten seconds are all you get. They have to be the right ones.

We landed. The passenger was taken care of. The reports were filed.

I got a call.

A kind voice ... a counselor from the company ... said, “You did great. But you’re done for the day.”

I told her I was fine. I meant it.
She said, “This isn’t a punishment. You’re being grounded. There’s a crash coming… it just hasn’t landed yet.”

And she was right.

It hit me on the ferry flight back to base. Quiet cabin. Empty seats. My hands started shaking. Not from fear ... from release. From the sudden absence of adrenaline. Something inside me had held its breath the whole time... and finally exhaled.

That’s the thing about composure.

People confuse it for peace.
But sometimes, calm is just a costume... worn long enough to fool even yourself.

I still do it. All the time.

As a principal now, when a student’s yelling or trying to provoke me, I go straight into that same locked-in mode. Calm voice. Steady hands. Careful eyes. But inside? The frustration. The adrenaline. The need to hold the room ... it’s all still there.

I don’t snap.
But I don’t release, either.

I send the energy outward. I pack it into my posture. I wrap it around my silence. People say I look composed. But my eyes?

I’ve been told they’re loud.

Years ago, I had a confrontation ... no violence, no shouting ... but my words? They cut deep. I remember one person pulling me aside afterward, gently saying, “Are you okay?” Told me to sit. Said they had my back.

And I remember thinking: How did they see it?

Maybe we’re never as hidden as we think.
Maybe someone always sees.

But the world we live in now… it overcompensates. Everyone is encouraged to crack open the moment they feel tension. And while I understand the need for support, there’s something about the way we do it now that feels diluted. Performative. No one wants to be seen after the fact. They want to be coddled before they’ve even stood in the fire.

So I stay “chill.”

Because chill keeps the room calm.
Because chill gets the job done.
Because sometimes, the fire inside me is too useful to put out.

But sometimes...
The crash comes anyway.
And the hardest part isn’t surviving it...

It’s making sure no one sees it happen.