A nervous fever had taken ahold of me, creeping up from the depths of my abdomen, with each second of the clock ticking past, the closer I was to approaching my home country. It was the first time I’d be stepping foot on U.S. soil in nearly eight months. I could hear the wheels shuttering to ascend beneath me, as the nose of the plane began to gradually point forward toward the ground. The uneasy feeling of my short layover was reaching frantic paramount. I nervously tapped my feet on the ground, fumbling one hand around the other, while stopping briefly to obsessively check my phone for the time. My heart sank when the time seemed to start passing faster than I even thought possible – before I knew it, the plane was 25-minutes late. Eventually, we landed, taxying to the designated stop, and the flight attendant unlocked the doors, waving me through before the others, since she knew of my situation.
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