The Me That Only Shows Up At The Airports

I have a confession to make. Recently, I had a realization about myself while sitting in an airport lounge, somewhere between boarding calls and overpriced coffee. I looked around, took a breath, and suddenly thought—wait a minute, I’m behaving differently. But better. Calmer. Softer. More aware. And I knew, right then, that the airport version of me is a whole different person from my everyday self.

It’s not like I morph into someone completely new. It’s more like all the noise—the work stress, the routine pressure, the endless to-dos—gets muted. What’s left is me, but lighter. I move slower. I breathe deeper. I smile more. I make eye contact. I read. I hydrate (wild, I know). I somehow even like myself more.

I carry that version of me home for a little while. The first few weeks after a trip, I still sip my coffee slowly, take long walks, and remember how to live without rushing. But then—inevitably—life hits. Emails, deadlines, multiple jobs, client problems... and just like that, the airport-me fades. Buried under the weight of getting things done.

Until I travel again. And he comes back. Effortlessly. And luckily, that next trip is coming soon—yay. And I get to meet airport-me all over again.

The Split Personality: Airport Me vs. Everyday Me

There’s this quiet shift that happens when I travel. Not dramatic. Not obvious. Just a subtle, internal realignment. In airports, I become someone who isn’t constantly reacting, performing, or pushing. Airport Me walks slower. Breathes deeper. Thinks more clearly. I’m more observant, more curious, more grounded. I don’t feel the usual rush to be useful or impressive. I exist with ease, without needing a reason.

Then there’s Everyday Me—the version that runs most of the show. He’s responsible. On top of things. He responds to emails quickly, manages deadlines, handles multiple roles without flinching. But he’s also tired. Caught in the loop. Forgetting to pause. Often running on fumes without even realizing it. He survives on structure, but sometimes forgets how to just be.

What’s wild is that both versions are real. Neither is fake. But Airport Me feels like the one I lose touch with most often—the one who shows up when I finally step out of routine, even briefly. He reminds me that I can still feel present, still feel human, underneath all the noise.

And I don’t resent Everyday Me—he’s kept my life moving. He gets things done. But Airport Me? He reminds me what it feels like to actually live.

Why Airport Me Feels More Me

It’s not just about being in a different city or having time off. Airport Me feels closer to who I really am because he exists without expectations. No one knows me in that lounge. No one's asking for a deliverable. I’m not playing any roles—not the dependable one, not the fixer, not the guy who always has it together. I’m just there. A person in motion, but finally still inside. Somehow, the version of me that shows up in that strange in-between space feels more honest than the one that’s performing stability every day.

Why Airport Me Disappears (and Why That Hurts)

Of course, I try to carry that feeling back. For a while after a trip, I still wake up slower, I notice things—sunlight, silence, my breath. But life piles back on. Notifications. Delays. Responsibilities. The world doesn’t bend just because I came back with softer edges. And slowly, Airport Me disappears. Not all at once—but in pieces. First the calm goes, then the clarity, then the ease. Until one day I’m rushing again, scrolling again, numbing again. I know he’s still in there, somewhere—but I can’t reach him through the noise.

And I’ll be honest—it hurts. Not in some dramatic, soul-crushing way. But in a quiet ache. The kind that comes from remembering how good something felt, and realizing you can’t hold onto it.

What Airport Me Teaches Me About Myself

But every time he comes back—every time I find myself sitting by a departure gate, headphones on, heart open—I realize he never fully left. He’s just been waiting. He teaches me that I’m capable of stillness. That underneath the pressure and performance, I still know how to breathe deeply. How to feel things fully. He’s proof that I don’t have to be someone else to feel okay—I just have to stop constantly trying to be someone more.

He doesn’t need perfection. He just needs presence.

How to Bring Him Back (Without a Boarding Pass)

Lately, I’ve been wondering: what if I didn’t need a boarding pass to feel like him? What if I created tiny rituals in my everyday life that brought him closer? Maybe it’s five quiet minutes in the morning, no phone. Maybe it’s taking the long walk home. Maybe it’s choosing silence instead of distraction. Not to become some idealized version of myself—but just to remember I’m already him.

Maybe I don’t need to escape to find myself. Maybe I just need to listen more often.

A Quiet Return

I know I’ll keep needing travel—not to run away, but to return. To reset. To meet myself again in the calm between takeoff and landing. But now, I’m starting to believe that I don’t have to lose Airport Me every time I come home.

Maybe he’s not just a version that shows up when I leave.
Maybe he’s the part of me that’s been trying to lead all along.