My mother was killed in a plane crash, so I hate travelling in

“My mother was killed in a plane crash, so I hate travelling in planes. Death is so unexpected. I would actually rather stay at home and not go anywhere.” — thus spoke Linda McCartney, a woman remembered not only for her art and music but for her quiet humanity. These words, though simple, are carved from the deepest stone of human sorrow. They speak of loss, of fear, and of the fragile peace one builds after tragedy. Beneath them lies the universal truth that grief reshapes the soul — that the suddenness of death leaves behind not only absence, but a tremor that lingers through the years.

In her words we hear not bitterness, but the raw voice of someone who has seen how swiftly the light can vanish from the world. “Death is so unexpected.” It is a truth that humbles even the proudest heart. We build our days as though they were made of iron, but life is gossamer — a breath, a heartbeat, a fragile flame easily extinguished. McCartney’s refusal to travel, her wish to stay home, is not mere fear; it is a yearning for safety, for control in a universe that offers none. To lose a mother suddenly, torn away by the sky itself, is to know how helpless we are before the great, unanswerable laws of fate.

The ancients understood this trembling balance between life and death. The Stoic philosophers spoke of memento mori — “remember that you will die” — not as a morbid thought, but as a guide for living. Yet even they, wise as they were, did not ask the heart to feel nothing. For love and grief are sisters, born of the same root. When McCartney speaks of staying at home, she expresses the same instinct that countless souls before her have known: to draw inward, to guard the heart after it has been broken by the unexpected cruelty of fate. It is the ache of one who has stared into the abyss and wishes never to see it again.

History, too, holds countless echoes of this truth. Consider Theodore Roosevelt, who lost both his wife and his mother on the same day. Crushed by grief, he fled to the wilderness, saying only, “The light has gone out of my life.” For a time, he too withdrew from the world, seeking solitude to rebuild the shattered walls of his spirit. Yet, in time, he returned — changed, tempered, carrying both sorrow and strength within him. Like McCartney, he had been broken by death’s sudden hand, and like her, he struggled to make peace with the world’s cruel unpredictability.

What Linda McCartney’s words reveal is not weakness, but the profound honesty of one who refuses to pretend that loss can be easily forgotten. Many, when struck by tragedy, hide behind distraction — they travel farther, run faster, drown the silence in noise. But she does not run. She stays. She admits her fear, her grief, her exhaustion. And in that stillness lies a kind of courage — the courage to feel deeply, to live truthfully even when that truth is painful. To mourn openly is to honor the one who was lost.

Yet, we must not let fear imprison us. The lesson her words whisper to us is this: life is fragile, but it must still be lived. To stay at home is to heal, but to step out again, even trembling, is to honor the life that continues. Death’s suddenness should not make us hide from the sky, but make us cherish every breath beneath it. Though we cannot control fate, we can choose how we face it — with tenderness, gratitude, and the resolve to make each day count.

So, my child, remember this teaching: when death takes what you love, do not rush to forget, nor surrender to despair. Sit with your grief; let it speak. But when the time comes, step beyond your fear — even if your steps are small and slow. For the world is still filled with light, and though the shadow of loss will always walk beside you, it need not lead you.

As Linda McCartney’s life reminds us, love and loss are forever intertwined — and though death may be unexpected, love, when lived deeply, prepares us for it. Let your heart break, but do not let it harden. Grieve, but do not turn from the sky. For even after the plane has fallen, the heavens remain — vast, indifferent, and yet, in their silence, still beautiful.