When Life Feels Like You Just Got Hit By An Airplane
You know that feeling when something utterly catastrophic, completely out of left field, just slams into your life? That moment when the rug isn't just pulled out from under you; it's like the entire floor disappears, and you're left flailing in mid-air, wondering what the heck just happened? Well, for me, there was this one specific period, a veritable maelstrom of events, where honestly, I got hit by an airplane.
Now, hold on a second. Before you imagine debris flying, emergency sirens wailing, and me miraculously surviving a literal jumbo jet impact – no, that's not quite it. Thankfully. But in terms of sheer, unadulterated shock, the kind of impact that leaves you gasping for air and questioning reality, it felt precisely like that. It was a complete, visceral jolt to my system, a series of blows that came so fast and so hard, it genuinely felt like I'd been struck by something impossibly large, moving at an unimaginable speed. It wasn't physical in the traditional sense, but the emotional, mental, and existential impact? Oh, it was a direct hit, no question.
The Day the Engines Roared (and Then Exploded)
It all started innocently enough, as these things always do, don't they? I was on top of the world, or at least, that's how it felt. My career was soaring, pun absolutely intended. I'd just landed a dream promotion, was leading a fantastic team on a project I was genuinely passionate about, and my personal life felt stable and bright. I was putting in the hours, yes, but it felt good, productive. I had this sense of momentum, like I was finally hitting my stride, cruising at a comfortable altitude. Everything was mapped out, the destination clear. I felt confident, maybe even a little invincible. Looking back, that's probably when you're most vulnerable, right? When you think you've got it all figured out.
Then, out of nowhere, the first jolt. It wasn't even a tremor, more like the sudden, sharp drop you get in turbulence that makes your stomach leap into your throat. A company-wide email, vague but ominous, about "strategic restructuring." My gut twisted. I'd seen these before; they rarely ended well for anyone not at the absolute top. I tried to brush it off, to stay positive, but the seed of anxiety had been planted. Then came the meeting – the kind of meeting where everyone sits too straight, smiles too thinly, and uses words like "synergy" and "optimization" to disguise the cold, hard truth. My entire department, the one I'd poured years of my life into, the one I was leading, was being dissolved. Not scaled back, not reorganized. Dissolved. Poof. Gone. My dream project? Canned. My role? Redundant. Just like that, in the space of a 30-minute conference call, my entire professional world imploded. It felt like standing on the tarmac, watching my flight path disappear, then feeling the full force of a jet engine blow past me. The wind knocked out of my lungs, everything suddenly loud and chaotic.
The Aftermath: Picking Up the Pieces (or What Was Left of Them)
The immediate aftermath was a blur. Shock, disbelief, a profound sense of injustice. It was like I was in a slow-motion movie, watching myself go through the motions. Clearing out my desk, exchanging awkward, sympathetic glances with colleagues who were also facing their own version of the same disaster. The feeling was surreal, as if I was experiencing it from outside my own body. That initial impact of the "airplane hit" left me utterly winded. I remember just sitting in my car in the parking lot for what felt like hours, staring blankly ahead. My phone was buzzing with texts, well-meaning calls, but I couldn't bring myself to answer. I just needed to process that I had, in fact, been completely blindsided.
And here's where the metaphor really started to ring true. You see, when one big thing hits, sometimes it triggers a cascade. The stress of the job loss started to ripple through my personal life. Small disagreements became bigger arguments. The financial uncertainty loomed large, casting a shadow over everything. It felt like the turbulence from that initial impact was just shaking my whole world apart, piece by agonizing piece. Sleep became elusive, replaced by restless nights spent replaying conversations, dissecting every decision, wondering what I could have done differently. It was a deep, gnawing anxiety that settled into my bones. For a while, I just felt stuck, paralyzed by the sheer enormity of what had happened. It was like being in a debris field, not knowing which way to turn, or even if there was a way out.
Shifting Altitude: A New Perspective
Slowly, gradually, the dust began to settle. The initial shock started to give way to a flicker of something else: determination. Or maybe just sheer exhaustion with feeling miserable. I realized I couldn't just stay in that impact zone forever. It was hard, really hard, to shift my mindset. But I started talking, really talking, to friends and family. I leaned on my support system. I allowed myself to feel the anger, the sadness, the frustration – but then, crucially, I started to funnel that energy into action.
I began to see the "airplane hit" not as a personal failure, but as an external force, an unavoidable collision with circumstances beyond my control. And with that understanding came a strange sense of liberation. My identity had been so wrapped up in that job, that career trajectory. When it was stripped away, I had to redefine myself. Who was I without that title, that project, that perceived success? It was a terrifying question, but also, surprisingly, an exciting one. It was an involuntary forced landing, yes, but it meant I could choose a whole new destination. I started exploring different paths, things I'd always thought about but never had the "time" or "courage" for. The wreckage of my old plans became the foundation for something entirely new. It was a massive perspective shift, one that only something as utterly jarring as an "airplane hit" could have induced.
Living Beyond the Impact Zone
Today, looking back, I can honestly say that experience, as devastating as it felt at the time, was a profound turning point. The scars are there, of course. There's a certain wariness now, a recognition that even when things feel stable, life can throw you a curveball – or in my case, a wide-bodied jet. I don't take anything for granted anymore. That feeling of being utterly blindsided by something so massive fundamentally changed how I approach my career, my relationships, and my own well-being.
I'm not going to lie and say it was an easy journey. It wasn't. It was messy, it was painful, and there were days I just wanted to pull the covers over my head and disappear. But what I learned from that "airplane hit" was invaluable. I learned about my own resilience, a strength I didn't know I possessed until it was absolutely necessary. I learned the importance of adaptability, of being able to pivot when your flight plan is suddenly, violently, ripped up. Most importantly, I learned that even after the most catastrophic impact, you can not only survive but also rebuild, often into something stronger, more authentic, and ultimately, more fulfilling.
So, yeah, I got hit by an airplane. Not a literal one, thank goodness. But it was a life event of such magnitude that the metaphor perfectly captures the shock, the devastation, and the eventual, hard-won process of recovery and rediscovery. It taught me that sometimes, the biggest setbacks are just the universe clearing the runway for an entirely different, perhaps even better, flight.