It’s after 3 a.m. in Los Angeles, and the city is quiet. I’m sitting under a single lamp in my office surrounded by maps, handwritten kneeboard notes, charts with soda stains, and pages folded and refolded from repetition. Three weeks ago, I passed my private pilot check ride, yet it still doesn’t feel real. People assume the moment your DPE shakes your hand and says “You passed” is the finish line, but at 3 a.m. you learn it’s not a finish line at all.
It’s a doorway.
