What I’m Taking With Me

A father’s heart, a husband’s longing, and a pause before the sky

I’m sitting in an airport lounge in Chicago. My shoes are off. The floor is cold. I’ve just taken out my laptop, not to check email, not to catch up, but to write this.

In a few minutes, I’ll board a 15-hour flight to Abu Dhabi. After that, another four hours to Delhi. Nineteen hours in the sky. Twenty-four, door to door.

This isn’t my first long flight. I’ve done this stretch more times than I can count. But something about today feels different.

I don’t feel rushed.

I don’t feel the usual push to fill every second with work.

I feel still.

—

Four days ago, my wife left for Delhi ahead of me. The house has felt different ever since. A little quieter. A little less full.

She took the same route I am about to take. And in a few hours, I’ll be catching up, not just to the destination, but to her. I’ve missed her already. The easy warmth of our small rituals, the way she knows what I need before I do. Just the sound of her voice in the room.

Being apart these days feels harder. Not dramatic. Just tender. There’s less to prove and more to feel.

—

This morning, my daughter dropped me at the airport. She’s 25 now. My son, 22, came too. So did our two dogs, wagging and wide-eyed in the back seat, confused as ever by luggage but thrilled to be part of the goodbye.

We hugged in that familiar drop-off lane. Nothing dramatic. But I felt it. The tug. The invisible thread between leaving and staying.

Our youngest is a freshman at engineering school. Still finding his way. Still becoming. I want to call him before I board. I always do. Just to hear his voice. To remind him that he’s not alone, even when none of us are near.

—

The lounge is quiet now. Screens glow. People scroll. I’m watching, not rushing.

I used to treat airports like pit stops. Fill the tank, answer emails, move fast. But today, I’m watching a young couple try to calm their toddler. I’m watching a man rest his head on his bag like it’s the softest pillow in the world. I’m watching myself.

A few hours ago, I almost dove into projects. Almost opened Slack. But I didn’t. For the first time in a long while, I reached for something else while traveling: words.

Maybe that’s what this flight is really for.

Not escape.

Return.

—

In this quiet, memories come.

I see my father, already waiting for me in Delhi. He’ll offer to have a chai for me. I can already smell it. Strong, sweet, steady. The way he always makes it for me.

The cups are always too hot to hold at first. We sip slow. Talk slow. The conversations drift between memories and the news. But it’s not the words that matter. It’s the feeling. That feeling of sitting with someone who’s known you forever.

I crave that. The kind of presence that doesn’t need much noise.

—

As I wait here, I hold both homes in my chest.

One in India. The other in Naperville.

One waiting with chai and memories.

The other just dropped me off with dogs barking and hugs that linger longer than they used to.

This is what life becomes, doesn’t it?

A constant act of leaving and returning.

Each time you leave, a piece stays behind.

Each time you arrive, something inside you softens.

—

I used to believe pace was power. That speed meant importance.

Now I believe pace is presence.

That slowing down is not stepping back—it’s stepping in.

Today, I carry no grand plans for the flight. No five-hour productivity window. No long checklist to crush.

I’ll write a little. Maybe sleep. Maybe watch clouds. Maybe remember things I didn’t know I missed.

And before I turn off my phone, I’ll make one last call.

To my son.

I’ll hear his voice. I’ll remind him to eat well. To breathe when it gets hard. To call us, even if there’s nothing to say.

Because love doesn’t live in big declarations.

It lives in small rituals. In shared chai. In airport drop-offs. In sleepy “take care” texts. In a call made from a gate before a long flight.

—

Soon I’ll hear the boarding call.

And when I do, I’ll walk slow.

Feel the ground.

Smile at the agent.

And carry two things with me:

The joy of where I’m going.

And the beauty of what I’ve left behind.

This flight isn’t about crossing time zones.

It’s about crossing back into myself.

_

Enjoy the rest of your Sunday and find those moments of silence and love and joy.

Warm regards,

Adi