“Ladies and gentlemen, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position as we prepare for landing,” said the static-filled voice on the intercom.

I dig my nails into the armrest as I stare down at depressing landscape below. I cannot believe this is happening.

86 minutes ago I was in New York — my home. Now, thanks to modern air travel and a few unfortunate financial decisions, I’m about to be in my hometown.

I blink back the hot tears threatening to spill over. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. In New York, I can breathe. I’m still 20,000 feet above this place and I already feel the claustrophobia squeezing my chest and gripping my lungs.

I shouldn’t be here. I should be seeing a show at the Rockwood, or trying that new restaurant on my block, or people-watching in the park. Anything but abandoning the life I always envisioned for the life that was predetermined for me. The life I always fought.

The wheels slam on the tarmac and briefly jolt me from my thoughts, but the choppy landing can’t shake me from my self pity.

I haven’t yet felt the Ohio air, but I swear I can literally feel the presence of every person I left behind — all waiting to greet me with “I told you” disguised as “welcome back.”

“Welcome to Columbus,” says the captain.