I’m writing this from a Delta flight to San Francisco, somewhere high above the heartland, moving about 450 miles per hour in a machine that still feels impossible to me.

Below me, the land is laid out in neat checkerboard squares. Farms, fields, roads, and towns pass quietly beneath us. I wonder what they’re planting down there. I wonder who is working those fields. I wonder how many people on this plane are also heading somewhere that matters.

I know I am because I’m going to San Francisco to walk with my daughter and son-in-law in the annual MS Walk, raising money to help fight a disease that is cruel, personal, and far too real for too many families.

And yes, I’m excited for the walk, and if I’m being honest, there’s something even more personal pulling me across the country. I get to see my daughter and her husband in person.

I don’t see her often enough, and I miss her. Maybe I’m not supposed to say that out loud. Maybe as parents, we’re supposed to smile bravely and act like distance is just part of life.

But I remember something Nancy once said to me, and I may be paraphrasing: “We teach our children to fly, and g-dammit, they fly.”

She's right. That’s the deal. That’s the victory. That’s also the ache.

So here I am, 30,000 feet in the air, smiling at the thought of hugging my child. I’m proud of her in the way only a parent can be proud. Proud of her intelligence, wit, charm, and strength. The person she has become and the person she continues to become.

It’s supposed to be nice in San Francisco, but the weather almost doesn’t matter. What matters is that I’m going to be there. I’m going to walk with her, stand beside her, and be a part of something meaningful.

And when I finally see her, after all the miles and all the waiting, I’m going to do the thing I’ve been looking forward to since the plane left the ground.

I’m going to give my daughter and son-in-law a very big hug.