
I was sitting in seat 11C on my flight home from Las Vegas, and I found myself staring at the window seat just two seats over to my left, when I couldnโt stop thinking about him.
The man who walked away from seat 11A on Air India Flight 171. The only survivor. The one who lived.
Maybe it was the altitude. Or the exhaustion after spending nine full days in Las Vegasโthe City of Sin, the capital of overindulgence and escapismโcompletely sober. Nine days navigating the chaos with clarity. Nine days in the heart of temptation, knowing exactly who I am and why I donโt drink anymore.
But as I sat there, buckled in at 38,000 feet, I found myself staring at that empty middle seat between me and the windowโand I felt the presence of something holy and heavy.
The Unbearable Math of Survival
On that doomed flight, 241 lives were lost. One manโin seat 11Aโwalked away. Not ran. Not rescued. He walked. From fire. From wreckage. From death.
I think about that a lotโhow survival makes no sense. How it’s an equation that doesnโt balance. How addiction, like a plane crash, shouldโve taken so many of us. And did.
But some of us walked.
We made it out. Not because weโre smarter or stronger or more worthy. Not because we had a perfect plan. But because somethingโcall it grace, chance, divine intervention, or sheer stubbornnessโcarved a path through the wreckage.
I Sat in 11C, But My Soul Was in 11A
Iโve lived that walk.
Not from twisted metal, but from the carnage of my own addiction. From the bottle that lied. From the life that looked polished on the outside while it was decaying on the inside.
I got out.
And sitting there in 11C, still buzzing from nine days of being the only one not ordering vodka tonics or mimosas with breakfast, I realized: Iโve become the witness.
Because every sober breath I take in places like Vegas is a quiet rebellion. Every clear-headed conversation, every dance without a drink, every full-hearted laugh that doesn’t need liquid courage is a defiant middle finger to the voice that once told me I couldnโt survive without drinking.
Itโs proof that I did.
The Weight of Walking Away
The man in seat 11A lost his brother on that flight. Iโve lost people too. Friends who didnโt make it. People I loved. People I didnโt even know, whose stories ended in addiction, just like mine, could have.
When youโre the one who survives, you carry them all.
You walk with their names tucked inside you. You smile for them. You hold space for their unfinished stories. You sit in silence sometimes, wondering why you were spared.
Because survival isnโt just a giftโitโs a responsibility.
A sacred one.
Living in the Aftermath
Every day I live clean, every time I raise a glass of sparkling water instead of whisky on the rocks, every time I go to Vegas and come home more alive, not lessโI honor seat 11A.
I remember that Iโm not just sober. Iโm a statistical impossibility. Iโm the decimal point that didnโt round down to zero. Iโm the math that shouldnโt workโbut does.
And maybe you are too.
We Are the Living Memorial
You donโt need to have sat in that exact seat to understand what it means. Seat 11A is every addict who survives. Every person who crawled out of the wreckage of their own life and decided to walk.
And when we walk, we walk with purpose. In the olden days, they called this trudging the road to happy destiny.
We become the living continuation of the story. We turn chaos into clarity. Pain into presence. Trauma into testimony. Grit into grace.
We donโt just survive. We show others how. We won’t ever tell you how to get sober or that you need to. But we will show you, with our actions, how it works, if you work it, one day at a time.
We say: โYou can dance in Vegas without blacking out. You can face grief without numbing it. You can build something beautiful from the ashes.โ
Weโre the walking, breathing evidence that miracles donโt need explanations.
Seat 11A. Seat 11C. Doesnโt Matter.
What matters is that weโre here.
That we choose to live with intention. That we refuse to take one sober Tuesday for granted. That we treat coffee with a friend like communion and ordinary laughter like a holy rite.
The man on Flight 171 walked out of the fire. I walked out of addiction.
And on that flight home from Vegas, as I sat in seat 11C, I understood something profound:
I am the miracle.
You are the miracle.
We are the miracle.
And with that comes responsibilityโto witness, speak, remember, and live like it all matters.
Because it does.
SPEAK OUT! SPEAK LOUD! at The Sober Curator is a celebration of authentic voices in recoveryโechoing Madonnaโs call to โExpress yourself!โ Here, readers and contributors take the spotlight, sharing transformative sobriety journeys, creative talents, and new avenues of self-expression discovered along the way. Through videos, poems, art, essays, opinion pieces, and music, we break the silence that often surrounds addiction, replacing it with connection, hope, and inspiration.
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Disclaimer: All opinions expressed in the Speak Out! Speak Loud! Section are solely the opinions of the contributing author of each individual published article and do not reflect the views of The Sober Curator, their respective affiliates, or the companies with which The Sober Curator is affiliated.
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If you or someone you know is struggling with alcohol use disorder, substance use disorder, a co-occurring illness, or a behavioral health disorder, we urge you to seek help. While the task may seem daunting, itโs important to remember that support is readily available and that there are people out there who want to help.
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