I don’t care how calm you think you are—if someone keeps kicking the back of your seat for five hours on a flight, it will test every nerve you have. I was flying from Seattle to Charlotte for my cousin’s wedding. Already stressed because the dress I planned to wear didn’t fit, and my plus-one canceled at the last minute. So, at the very least, I was hoping for a peaceful flight.

Nope. The kicking started before we even took off. At first, it was just light taps, like someone shifting in their seat. I let it go. But then it turned into a steady rhythm. Over and over again. I glanced back, expecting to see a child. Nope. It was a grown man, probably in his late 20s, hoodie up, AirPods in, completely zoned out.

I tried the polite approach—leaning back slightly and smiling. No reaction. Next, I did a half-turn and said firmly, “Excuse me?” Still nothing. He just blinked like I had interrupted his audiobook or whatever he was listening to.

The flight attendant came by with the drink cart, so I casually mentioned it. She nodded like she would handle it—but when she spoke to him, all he did was shrug and say, “Wasn’t me.” As if I didn’t know exactly what it felt like when someone was kicking my seat.

And it kept happening. What frustrated me even more was that the guy in the window seat next to him looked uncomfortable. He kept sneaking glances at him like he knew something but didn’t want to get involved.

About an hour before landing, I couldn’t take it anymore. I stood up, fully turned around, and said—louder than I intended—“Can you seriously stop?”

That’s when the guy in the window seat suddenly spoke up, and what he said made my stomach drop.

“He’s going through withdrawal.”

The whole row went silent. Even the guy kicking my seat looked up, like he hadn’t expected that to be said out loud.

I froze. “Withdrawal from what?” My voice was much softer now.

“Painkillers,” the window seat guy whispered. “He told me before we boarded. Said he lost his bag and is trying to tough it out.”

I didn’t know how to react. First, I felt guilty. Then, an odd kind of fear. And then frustration again, because none of this explained why he had to kick my seat to cope.

Still, I sat down and stayed quiet. I’m not heartless. I understand that addiction is real, messy, and complicated. But damn, all I wanted was to get to Charlotte in peace without being used as a human drum.

A few minutes later, the flight attendant came back. I pulled her aside and quietly told her what the guy in the window seat had just revealed. She nodded, her expression serious, and went to the back. A few minutes later, another flight attendant came over and crouched beside the guy behind me. She spoke calmly, clearly trained for situations like this. Finally, he admitted he was detoxing, hadn’t slept in two days, and was on his way to stay with his sister to turn his life around.

I sat there, staring at the seat in front of me, unsure what to think.

Then something unexpected happened. He tapped my shoulder gently. I turned around, bracing myself for whatever was coming.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quiet and sincere. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

And I believed him.

His name was Aaron. Not Aron or Erin—Aaron. He told me that when we landed, while we were all waiting to deplane. He said he’d been clean for three weeks, but losing his meds and being stuck at the airport all night had nearly broken him.

The window seat guy—his name was Victor—helped him carry his bag off the plane. Before leaving, Aaron shook my hand and said, “Thanks for not completely losing it on me. I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had.”

I don’t know what happened to him after that. But I think about him sometimes.

The truth is, we never really know what the person next to us is going through. I was wrapped up in my own stress—wedding stuff, heartbreak, little things. But that guy? He was just trying to survive another day.

That doesn’t mean what he did was okay. But sometimes, it helps to pause before reacting too harshly. You never know when someone might just need a little patience instead of an outburst.

I still flinch when someone taps my airplane seat. But now, I think twice before assuming they’re just being rude.

You never know. If this made you think twice too, share it. We need more grace in the skies—and everywhere else.