The Georgia air was still clinging to my skin, a warm, humid memory as I stepped into the climate-controlled cabin of the Gulfstream. The weekend had been a whirlwind of brisket, old photo albums, and the kind of deep, restorative laughter I thought I’d lost forever. As the heavy door of the jet hissed shut, sealing out the sounds of the tarmac, I didn't feel that familiar spike of panic. I didn't feel like I was being locked back in a cage.
I settled into the plush leather seat and turned my head toward the window. Outside, the sun was beginning to dip, casting long, golden shadows across the red clay earth of my home state. I found myself smiling at my own reflection in the glass—not the forced, practiced mask I’d worn for the Vanderbilts, but something real. Something light.
"I love h
