Economy Class To The Moon

Imagine being on a long‑haul flight. The kind where the seatbelt light seems permanently lit, and the aisle feels like forbidden territory. Now imagine that flight lasting sixteen days, the time it would take a Boeing 747, in theory, to reach the Moon. Sixteen days and nights in the same narrow seat, unable to stand, unable to stretch, unable to escape the geometry of the space you’ve been assigned. Most people would find that unthinkable. For me, it’s simply life. My wheelchair is my seat, my cabin, my constant companion. I don’t disembark. There is no arrival gate. The seatbelt sign never goes off.  

Every flight begins with boarding. For most passengers, it’s a shuffle down the jet bridge, a polite nod to the cabin crew, a quick stow of the bag overhead. For me, boarding is something else entirely. I’m strapped into an aisle chair a narrow, upright contraption that feels more like a restraint than a seat. I’m dragged backwards down the aisle like Hannibal Lecter in The Silence of the Lambs. I don’t have to imagine being in the scene. I live the choreography: strapped in, immobilised, pulled through a space designed for everyone except me. It’s not the crew’s fault; they’re doing their best. But the process itself is an assault on dignity, a reminder that independence is something I lost long ago.

The turbulence beneath me, not the dramatic kind that rattles overhead bins, but the constant, low‑level shaking of the world beneath me. Pavements that tilt, exaggerated cambers, thresholds that jar, surfaces that rise and fall without warning. Each bump sends a message through my spine, a reminder that my journey is not smooth, even when I’m sitting still. What others experience as a momentary wobble or sudden drop in altitude during a fight, I feel as a ripple of pain each time I venture out.

And then there’s the toilet. On a real flight, the worst moment is when you suddenly need to go and the seatbelt light flicks on. You look down the aisle and realise the lavatory is occupied, or out of bounds, or simply too far away to make an unsanctioned dash for it. You cross your legs. You wait. You hope the light goes off soon. Now imagine that feeling stretched across an entire day. And the night that follows. I can only use the bathroom with assistance, and assistance understandably doesn’t arrive on demand. When my body decides it needs to go, I don’t get to negotiate. I wait. I endure. And I hope. Sometimes, with my condition, control simply isn’t possible. The body has its own timetable, its own limits, its own betrayals. And every time I feel that familiar pressure building, every time I brace myself for the long wait ahead, there’s a flicker of fear, the fear of an accident, the fear of losing dignity in a space I can’t escape. But here’s the strange thing: even in that fear, I’ve learned to find gratitude. Gratitude for every hour I manage to hold on. Gratitude for the days when my body cooperates. Gratitude for the quiet victories no one sees, the ones measured not in miles travelled, but in moments endured.

The meals arrive with kindness, and I’m grateful for them. But imagine trying to eat your in‑flight tray dinner without the freedom to shift your posture, without the ability to lean forward or brace yourself. Every bite becomes a negotiation with gravity, with pain, with the limits of your own body. Even gratitude has its own weight. Sometimes the tremors come, just at the wrong time. I end up looking like the aftermath of a child learning to use a spoon by themselves, not a cool look!

However, on the occasion all goes well, I celebrate another small victory.

Most people would break long before the aircraft reached the Moon. Not because of the cramped seat or the recycled air, but because of the simple, human need for movement, privacy, dignity, and control. On my flight, those things aren’t occasional inconveniences, they’re permanent absences. And yet, even on this endless journey, there are windows. Moments of light. Small victories. Glimpses of the world that remind me I am still travelling, still present, still here. My flight may never land, but I’m still looking out at the stars. No matter what life throws your way, it’s still a wonderful world. Never give in.