I Tried Hypnotherapy For My Fear Of Flying. Here's What Happened

I'm writing this from a plane.

I never thought I'd write those words. Six months ago, when I flew from California to NYC after Christmas, I threw up before takeoff. It was during our taxi away from the jetway, the seat-belt light brightly illuminated. With a stranger on either side of me, I reached for the plastic-lined bag in the seat-pocket in front of me—a bag I'd heretofore assumed was mainly for chewing gum disposal—and, as quietly as possible, retched. Faced with sitting between my two disgusted seatmates with a bag of warm vomit on my lap, I chose the only marginally better option: I rang the call button and handed a (understanding, but visibly repulsed) flight attendant the bag of sick. My shame in the moment was alleviated only by my assuredness of the nearness of my death; this is how afraid of flying I was.

After my parents got divorced, I spent much of childhood flying by myself between states, meaning that time spent in airports and in flight was typically accompanied by the distress of leaving one parent and the general insecurity of a life spent in a state of between. I don't remember a specific catalyst for my fear, but I do remember driving through a thick white fog in the eerie quiet that's so evocative of an early morning flight, and asking my mom to take care of my cat when I was gone. I was 9 at the time.

I had a series of flights on the near horizon, one an eight-hour journey to Europe, and, months out, I was already lying awake at night, heart pounding, as I imagined them. Hypnotism was characterized mostly by a somewhat raunchy show I'd seen in Vegas during my 21st birthday—entertaining, amusing but not a valid alternative wellness therapy, like Traditional Chinese Medicine or meditation.

I always felt present, aware, and in control, and I always remembered everything after. I didn't feel changed, per se, but I always felt preternaturally calm, a sign, Grace said, that the hypnosis was working. The sessions were the highlight of my week, creating a state of intense calm that exponentially surpassed even my beloved morning meditation sessions. But I wasn't sure they were working—as my flight grew nearer, I had more restless nights. My narratively focused mind, so homed in my day job as a writer, went into overdrive, sketching out detailed scenarios of extreme turbulence and engine failure.

And then the day of my flight came. On the way to the airport, I listened to a special recording Grace had created for me, designed to distract and confuse my brain away from its catastrophic thoughts. I boarded the plane and settled into my seat, awaiting the feelings of dread that had come to define the weeks of anticipation and every flight of the last 20 years of my life. I checked the seat-back pocket to ensure a plastic-lined bag was available and eyed my seatmate's long legs as he settled in my beside me, trying to determine how quickly I could sprint to the bathroom, if necessary. But the nausea never came. My heart continued to beat slowly, steadily. My palms stayed dry, and my breath came in long, even inhales and exhales.

This is my fourth time on a plane, and currently, I'm watching Greenland pass by below me, and I feel peaceful, calm, and in awe that man has created a machine that can show us so much of this beautiful planet in such a short amount of time. I feel, quite simply, like I'm flying.