My vendetta against the DFW airport

“Flights may be grounded, the skies full of rain, but comfort and care will help ease the strain,” read an excerpt on my complimentary bag of pretzels from the Hyatt Regency hotel in Dallas, Texas.

I am virtually alone in South Dakota with my family scattered throughout the country. Around the holidays or any notable time off from school, I’m usually bouncing around Chicago O’Hare, Nashville, or even Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta for connecting flights. 

Luckily, I’ve always been fond of traveling. But when I see the DFW abbreviation on my ticket, my pink luggage and I begin to tremble.

Uniquely enough, through my extensive amount of trips, I have only ever missed or had flights cancelled at the Dallas-Fort Worth International Airport. 

The first incident occurred around Christmas of 2024, and the second, this past weekend, Saturday, Oct. 18.

What is beautiful and terrifying about airports is that they bring together so many individuals in the world and in so many different walks of life. 

You will walk past, brush arms with and chat amongst those you will most definitely never see again — what an interesting and almost isolating concept.

The thing about DFW is the sheer breadth of the building. According to Airports Council International, it ranks as the second-largest American airport by land area and the second-busiest by passenger traffic. 

It quite literally has its own ZIP code and city designation. It also qualifies to have its own police and fire departments. But most remarkably, it always finds me at my worst.

This weekend, I was coming back from a spontaneous trip to Los Angeles to see my aunt, who I hadn’t visited in three years.

I had purchased the ticket two days before departure, knowing that if I sat in my dorm for the entirety of fall break, I’d mentally tear myself apart. There is no better place to do that than among the palm trees.

Within this specific period of my life, I have been struggling with the concept of control. 

As a student, sister, daughter, partner and friend, I play many  significant roles in some stories. 

I can control how I impact my community; however, I have no power over what actually happens to me. 

Recently, events have occurred that just left me in a state of shock and confusion, wondering, “Why me?”

Similarly, last year, after treacherous finals and interpersonal conflicts in my life, I was stranded overnight in DFW, walking through an isolated city of shuttered stores and fast-food restaurants with the occasional sign of life being a fellow stranded traveler sleeping on a bench.

I recall traipsing around this modernized desert in the wee hours, listening to music and my thoughts, and looking at the stars and city skyline through large windows — my vision obscured by tears.

Being stranded there quite literally forced me to seek self-reflection. There was no crowd to drown out my thoughts and no home to return to. Just time. 

It is a rare treat to see one of the busiest buildings in the nation filled with only a few faces and dimmed lights. Not many can say they’ve had the same experience, emphasizing that, in some cruel way, this was meant to happen to me — twice. For a chronic planner, being suddenly told I had nowhere to go and no control over that fact was frightening.

However, no matter how stressful the situation DFW has confronted me with, I have faced it, each time with increasing care from my family and friends. After these unwanted periods of reflection, I come out knowing myself and my support system better. 

There is something so reassuring about having all of your intricate plans go to waste and being forced to walk in an empty “Bladerunner”-esque building, slowly digesting that it’ll all be okay.

We can’t run — or fly — away from our thoughts or hard truths. DFW is a beast, a final boss that will ensure that you do not leave until you address all your worries. It is truly a place for survival but also for some necessary self-salvation.

Just like in life, you have no control over what happens to you — merely how you react to it. 

Whether it’s flight times or exam grades, you cannot predict their arrivals but merely brace for impact. It is in these moments of silence that we learn more about ourselves than we ever would when consumed by noise.

I will continue to travel, but I will probably avoid layovers in Texas.