As I write this, I am sitting in the 20th row of an airplane that is, as they always are, far too crowded. The plane is shaking more than I can pretend to be comfortable with, and I can only grin and bear the turbulence so long before I need to find something new to distract myself with.

But as I clutched my armrest and turned my music up just a little louder, I began to reflect on how absurd it is to be afraid of turbulence. I love flying. Being that I now live 2,000 miles away from where I grew up, it has become a regular part of my commute on holidays and for vacation, but turbulence hasn’t gotten any easier.

And when “rough air” (as every pilot everywhere seems to call it) begins to make me nervous, I remind myself incessantly that flying in an airplane is probably safer than riding in a car, and I don’t get nervous every time I hit a pothole or drive down an unkempt dirt road. Turbulence is a part of flying and a part of existing.

And, as cliche as it is, airplane turbulence patterns (especially on flights as long as the one from Nashville to Seattle) seem to emulate my especially turbulent life. In life, as with on airplanes, things will be going smoothly, and then turbulence hits.

Sometimes you know it’s coming, the captain makes an announcement and you brace yourself, or you’ve had a project deadline looming in your calendar and you stress and prepare accordingly.

Other times, though, turbulence hits at completely unexpected moments. You’re enjoying a good book or a new movie and suddenly everything is shaking and a little bit scary right before the captain rings the intercom and informs you of what is already apparent: There’s turbulence.

In life, this seems like what happens most often. A loved one gets sick, you don’t get the job you’d been hoping for, a fight with a friend, broken plans, a breakup.

But just as it happens on airplanes, the turbulence in life passes. You find smoother air, you land softly in the arms of a loved one, and you promise to not let the next bout of rough air frighten you so much. I’ve been on hundreds of airplanes, but the turbulence still bothers me. I’ve tried navigating life for two decades (which, granted, isn’t very long) and life’s rough air continues to terrify me.

I think the trick to making our roughest moments even a little more bearable is to find the blue sky, the silver lining, the steady point in the distance. Life (and airplanes) is going to be scary, but no matter how fervently we try and convince ourselves otherwise, there is always a patch of blue sky, sun shining from behind the clouds, a finish line up ahead, a hand to hold.

I would do almost anything to never have to fly through turbulent air again. But I wouldn’t trade my turbulent, chaotic, phenomenal life for anything. It is within the incredibly terrifying and uncertain circumstances that I have found my hands to hold, my soft places to land and recognized the love in my life that is always ready to steady my gaze.