The joke never really got old, at least not to them. “There goes Amelia Earhart, off to fly who-knows-where again!” they’d snicker, pointing at the airplanes streaking across the hazy Los Angeles sky. It was supposed to be a jab, a reminder that dreams like mine – becoming a pilot – were just that, dreams. But for me, it was the fuel that kept the fire burning.
Growing up in LA, the sky held this undeniable allure. While other kids built sandcastles on the beach, I’d spend hours tracing the paths of airplanes with my finger, imagining myself at the controls, navigating the endless blue. Of course, being a girl with a pilot dream in the 90s wasn’t exactly the norm. The dismissive comments and the snickers chipped away at my confidence, making that dream feel like a secret I had to keep tucked away.
But the desire to fly never indeed left. It simmered beneath the surface, a quiet yearning that refused to be extinguished. Fast-forward to my late twenties, a successful career path but a nagging emptiness that a fancy job title couldn’t fill. One evening, while stuck in the soul-crushing gridlock of the 405, I saw it—a billboard advertising flight training in Los Angeles. It was like a sign, a beacon cutting through the smog and the doubt.
That’s how I found myself walking into the doors of a flight school. A sense of belonging quickly replaced the initial wave of nervousness. There were women there, strong, capable women pursuing the same dream I was. The instructors, far from being dismissive, were encouraging, their passion for aviation infectious.
Learning to fly wasn’t easy. There were moments of frustration, of questioning my abilities. But with every successful landing, every smooth turn, the doubt chipped away, replaced by a growing sense of confidence. The first time I soloed, the feeling of pure exhilaration was indescribable. The city sprawled beneath me, not a source of limitations but a launchpad from which I could explore the endless possibilities of the sky.
Looking back, the childhood jokes sting a little less now. They were a reflection of societal expectations, not my potential. Flight training in Los Angeles wasn’t just about learning to fly a plane; it was about learning to believe in myself, to silence the doubters, and to chase that childhood dream with everything I had. It wasn’t about becoming the “best pilot ever” anymore; it was about proving that dreams, no matter how outlandish they seem, can take flight. And for a girl who once felt like Amelia Earhart was just a fictional character, that feeling of soaring above the clouds is pure magic.
