“What about the PTSD? The episodes?”
“They’re real. They’ll continue.” She didn’t soften it. “But they’re manageable with proper support. A service dog, continued therapy, medication adjustments are tools to help you function, not proof of failure.”
“And if I break down again?”
“Then you use the tools we’re building. Recognize warning signs earlier, communicate before it escalates, implement crisis protocols. Recovery isn’t about never having symptoms. It’s about managing frequency and severity, having support when episodes occur.”
Limited and capable. Managing symptoms while still competent. Teaching instead of flying, but still fundamentally a pilot.
“What comes next?”
“For the short term, therapeutic flying. Controlled exposure to other aircraft, rebuilding comfort with the environment you love.” She held up a hand. “Not about getting you cleared to fly solo. About reclaiming your identity as an aviator within your current limitations.”
“And the long term?”
“Instructor certification is absolutely achievable. You’d need refresher courses, checkrides, medical evaluations through proper channels.” She leaned forward slightly. “With your background, any military base would likely jump at having you for ground school instruction. Aerospace engineering degree, combat experience, proven teaching ability? That’s exactly what they look for. Or civilian flight schools, community colleges with aviation programs. You have options.”
“I hadn’t thought past just... survivin’ each day.”
“I know. But what I observed today is not survival mode. That’s professional competence. And it’s time you started seeing the difference.”
“You’re not a broken pilot pretending to be useful,” Elena rested a hand on my shoulder. “You’re an experienced aviator adapting to new limitations while maintaining professional expertise. Those are fundamentally different identities.”
I wiped my eyes quickly. “Thank you. For coming, for observin’, for being honest about both the limitations and the capabilities.”
“That’s my job,” she stood, closing her notebook. “I’ll want a couple more sessions in the next few days. Processing what came up, discussing therapeutic flying, working on crisis prevention with Alex. I’m here through July second. Let’s take advantage of that.”
“Yes ma’am.”
“But take today as evidence. When you doubt yourself, remember you just taught a complex lesson with professional competence while being observed by a specialist.” She smiled. “Your brain works. Your judgment is sound. Your expertise is real.”
She headed to her car. I sat on the bench, trying to process everything.
Alex hurried over as Elena drove away. “Well?”
I pulled her down beside me. “She said my judgment’s intact. That I demonstrated professional-level teaching. That the expertise is still there, just the medium changed.”
“I could have told you that,” her voice was thick with relief.
“Yeah, but you’re biased.”
“Damn right I am,” she leaned against me. “How do you feel?”
“Like somethin’ I’ve been carrying can finally be set down. Like maybe I’m not just survivin’ anymore. Like I can actually build something with what’s left instead of mournin’ what’s gone.”
Alex kissed my cheek, pulling my arm around her shoulders so she could nestle closer. “That’s what she saw. What I’ve been seeing all along.”
We sat in the morning sun, the Cub quiet in the hangar behind us. My hand found the edge of her top almost unconsciously, fingertips dipping to brush over the inked-in feather I knew was there, just below.
“What you did today,” she said softly. “Seeing you come alive up in the sky—that’s who you are, Finn. That’s who you’ve always been.”
I swallowed against the lump in my throat. All this time I’d been thinking about what I’d lost—my wings, my steadiness, my certainty about who I was. But Alex had been carrying the symbol of flight over her heart, and somehow I’d become part of her story of rising from ashes instead of just falling from the sky.
I traced the outline of the tattoo through her shirt. “You’ve been my feather all along,” I whispered, voice hoarse. “Helpin’ me believe I could fly again when I’d forgotten how.”
She looked up at me, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Then what a pair we are.”
My grandfather’s plane. My plane. The one that taught me to fly at fourteen. The one now teaching me I could still be a pilot, just differently than I’d planned.
