v. 63 Good Good News at 30,000 Feet
Welcome to Life, Created — a weekly(ish) reflection on the wisdom of being a grown-ass human and staying curious when the world’s on fire. Rooted in microjoys, meaning, and the moments that make it all worthwhile.
We had just landed. You know that weird, suspended moment when the plane is on the ground but no one is allowed to move yet, when everyone pretends patience while aggressively assuming the position to grab their carry-on and run, regardless of the fact that they are in row #277. You know, with 276 rows in front of them. Anyway, I was still riding the glow of a gorgeous girls’ trip to Mérida, the kind where you expect to talk about art and food and end up talking about perimenopause instead. Honestly, that felt so right. Being among your people has a way of loosening the real conversations. I will maybe share more on that trip later.
For now, here is what happened on the flight home.
I was seated next to an Indian woman, and yes, that is relevant, late fifties maybe, with a bright, spunky energy that made me assume she gives excellent advice and tells really fun stories. As we waited to deboard, she got a call. She tried to be subtle, hand over her mouth, which was very cute considering I was right there, inches away, and absolutely listening.
She kept repeating, “Oh, that’s so so so good. Oh, that’s wonderful. Oh that’s SO good. This is GOOD GOOD news.” Lots of repetition, the kind that shows up when your feelings outrun your vocabulary. This went on for what felt like minutes. Then she said, “You’ll be the richest one in our family. This is so so good. I’m so proud of you!”
Y’all, I am not here to gossip, but I was fully emotionally invested in whatever was happening.
When she ended the call, I asked if she had received good news, because inquiring minds needed to know. Her whole face softened and opened into a giant smile. She told me it was her son who had called. He had finished undergrad in the spring and was struggling to get a job offer. He had been valedictorian of his high school and is, in her words, “such a good boy.” A very good boy. He had watched his friends land roles in tech while he kept interviewing, round after round, with no offers at the end of them.
Then it finally happened. He received an offer from one of the roles he wanted most. His starting salary was $220,000. $220,000 to start. She leaned in conspiratorially and told me he might still hear back from another company, one that starts with a G and sounds like Schmoogle. Also, that is me saying this not-so-coded nonsense and not her. She said the company’s name, but I am trying not to spill any beans. Okay.
She then went on to tell me that he recognized how hard she had worked since coming to this country to build a better life for him. She was the very first person he called with this news. He wanted to thank her.
That right there is the part that got me.
I was suddenly holding back tears, proud-cited for a kid I had never met, and deeply moved by this mama’s happiness. The pride in her voice was unmistakable. No matter how impressive or ordinary our lives look from the outside, we can still be someone’s pride and joy.
It made me think about whether we ever outgrow the love of our parents or if there is a point where being someone’s pride stops mattering.
I don’t think there is.
My parents are no longer alive, and still, I know this feeling intimately. When something exciting happens in my own life, I have an instinctive habit of looking up and saying, “Did you see that, Mom?” The relationship continues, even without the tangible phone call. The longing to share good news with the people who shaped us does not disappear with age or even with loss. It lives on as muscle memory and shows up before logic gets in the way. And logic often gets in the way.
What moved me just as much was how eager this woman was to share her joy. She did not downplay it or keep it contained out of embarrassment. She let herself be seen in her happiness and invited a stranger into the moment. The delight of being asked about her joy was palpable, and she met the question with such beautiful generosity.
We walked off that plane floating, both of us. Not because of the bumpy flight, but because joy, when shared, has real lift. And because pride, when spoken aloud, grows. Because the teeniest moments, a phone call, a conversation between strangers, a delay on a jet bridge, remind you of what matters.
Good good news has that kind of power.
And if we are lucky, no matter how old we get or how much time passes, we still carry the impulse to call first, to look up, to say, “Did you see that?”
Every essay features a section called “One Fine Microjoy” – an experience, place, or thing that brings me joy, grace, and hope amidst life’s ups and downs. I hope it invites you to recognize and appreciate the delights that ground, inspire, and enrich our journey.
I got ‘em from my mama. #Freckleface
This week’s microjoy: The colors of Mexico deserve a full write-up of their own because they are unreal. This photo was taken in Izamal, about ninety minutes outside of Mérida, where the entire town is painted egg-yolk yellow. Every building participates. Even on a cloudy day, the sun finds a way to peek through and reflect the color back at you. It is an absolute delight for the eye.
P.S. Per usual, if this resonated with you- repost, comment, share and spread the word.
With love, wisdom [and small mercies] from Montclair. xx
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