Three years ago, I missed my flight because I went to the incorrect terminal too quickly. After a long business trip, I was fatigued in every way: mentally, emotionally, and physically. I had been living my life on autopilot, doing everything I was “supposed” to do: working hard, meeting deadlines, and pretending to like the route I had chosen.
But that morning at the airport, it all came together for me. I left my hotel late, spilled coffee over my shirt, and in my panic, I ended myself at the wrong terminal. By the time I figured it out, the gate was closed. I missed my flight.
I stood there in disbelief, and my wrath grew until it eventually came out. I cried. Not the kind of crying that you can hide behind sunglasses; the kind where your shoulders shake, your tears run freely, and you can’t pretend you had it all together anymore. I sat down in the first empty chair I saw without even looking to see who was next to me.
The man next to me then said in a calm voice, “Are you okay?”
His voice was nice and not too loud. I thought I would wave farewell, but instead I nodded and said, “I missed my flight.” He smiled sweetly and said, “I’ve done that before.” It may be a good thing. His tone—calm, friendly, and curious—made me want to tell the truth. But I told him more.
We talked for more than an hour. We talked about things that mattered. Talk about things that matter. He mentioned he has worked in finance for more than ten years, which is a job with a lot of stress, rewards, and burnout. The fact that his sister had to go to the hospital after a mental health crisis was the turning point for him. She had lived, but it changed everything for him. He quit his work, cut back on his life, and began to travel. He worked as a freelancer now and then, wrote when he could, and tried to be more aware of each day.
I told him that I used to write poetry before college, before the business world, and before I lost track of what made me feel alive. I told him I hadn’t written anything real in a long time. I told him how stuck I felt and how tired I was of going for things I didn’t really want.
He turned to me and said, “If you ever go to Santa Fe, check out The Blue Finch Café.” Then he got on his rebooked flight. He left after that. Like that. No names. No contact. It was a rare, pure moment that felt both random and essential.
Months passed. Things kept going. But on that day, something shifted in me. His remarks kept coming back to me during peaceful times, which made me start writing again, starting with short, simple pieces. I write poems in notebooks, on napkins, and in the Notes app on my phone. The more I wrote, the more I realized how long I had been silent.
In the end, I did something dumb—or maybe it was brave. I quit my job. I sold some things, packed a bag, and bought a one-way ticket to Santa Fe. I told myself I was just going to visit. Just to be sure. Find that café, if it even exists.
It did.
The Blue Finch Café was in a quiet corner of downtown. It had chipped blue paint and big windows that let in golden light. Inside, the smell of fresh bread and strong coffee filled the air. The walls were covered in art from the area and posters for community events. There was a small stage in the back and a chalkboard that showed what was going on that week. On Thursday, there was an open mic night.
I was afraid. But I did sign up. As I recited a new poetry, my hands and voice shook. When I was done, the room was quiet, and then there was a soft round of applause. It felt like I could breathe again after holding my breath for years.
Colin, the owner of the café, came up to me after that. He said, “That was lovely.” “Make a zine.” Would you like to send something in?
One submission became into three. A chapbook came next. A little press published my writing after that. Things in my life steadily altered. I started leading workshops. Reading out loud. I was showing youngsters how to use poetry to understand the world around them. I wasn’t making six figures, but I was doing something better: making a point.
Two years later, I got an invitation to a writers’ retreat in Taos. I almost didn’t go. But I thought I should. One name struck out to me as I looked over the guest list: Navin Singh. It tugged at something in my memory. A quick search confirmed it: he had founded a major investment firm and was the type of person that business writers talked about. But then, just a few years ago, he stopped being in the public eye. No justification was given. There is no scandal. Just… gone.
I saw him on the first day of the retreat. He was sitting near to the fire with a thermos in his hand. Before he ever said anything, I knew who he was. He said, “Girl, wrong terminal.”
I laughed. “Man with a blue finch.”
We talked for a long time. This time, we told each other our names. We stayed in touch. We weren’t romantically involved, but we were serene and supportive of each other because we understood each other so well. We would talk to each other from time to time, give each other writing advice, and propose books.
Months later, I met his sister. Being alive. Nice. Getting better. We ate lunch together, and she told me something over coffee that I still remember. She said, “Navin talks about you.” “He says you remind him of me before everything.” Before it turned dark. That interaction helped him remember to have optimism.
I wasn’t ready for it. I hadn’t done anything courageous yet. I hadn’t come up with anything. I had just been there. But sometimes, simply being there is all you need. Being with someone can help them remember something they forgot they had.
I presently live in Santa Fe. I write at the Blue Finch Café. Every Thursday night, I host an open mic, and I always leave one empty chair in the back.
Now that I know that life is full of missed flights and wrong terminals. That chance meetings can start things. I now know that small things can change people’s life in big ways.
And sometiames, the path we should take isn’t the one we thought we would. It’s the one we pick by accident, with only a story and the name of a stranger we don’t know yet.