The flight back from Sweden was the worst I’ve ever taken. I Usually book an aisle. I forgot. Wedged for eight hours between two large men. By the time I boarded, all the overhead space was gone, which meant my overstuffed carry-on ended up at my feet, stealing what little legroom remained. Torture. And yet, only two nights earlier, in my hotel room watching a documentary about a man from North Korea, years of imprisonment, near-deaths he somehow survived. How can I complain? But there I was, unravelling, convinced I couldn’t bear it. I needed the room I didn’t have.

I don’t get panic attacks, but my mind kept checking the temperature of the water wondering if I could jump into it. Imagining what it might be like to let the frustration spill out in a public storm. Some irrational part of me wanted the relief of a breakdown, puncture the claustrophobic nightmare. But I sat still, cramped and silent, realizing again what I always forget: I can’t control these things. I didn’t control the seat assignment, or the overhead space, or the bodies pressed against me. I don’t control much of anything. Life keeps arranging itself in ways I wouldn’t choose, and my part is only to endure and witness mind flailing against facts.