“There’s no way your flight will take off in this weather. You’ll be back soon.”

With those parting words, on February 16th I headed to Pearson International Airport, bracing myself against one of Toronto’s worst snowstorms in recent history.

Toronto digs out from biggest winter storm in more than three years 

As the Uber driver cautiously navigated through snow-laden side streets and treacherous highways, I gripped my seatbelt tightly, my foot pressing an imaginary brake, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

All day, I had been refreshing my flight status, fully expecting a cancellation. At the airport, a complete whiteout swallowed the tarmac; not a single plane was visible. Yet, somehow, our flight remained scheduled. Trusting that the weather forecasting service deemed it safe, I boarded. After an extended de-icing process, I willed myself to sleep, hoping to escape the turbulence I was certain awaited us.

But no intensity of sleep could have prevented me from this experience.

I woke up as we began our descent into LaGuardia—a route I had flown countless times. But this time felt different. The plane trembled violently, the wing I had my eyes fixated on was swaying against the wind. My body tensed, pressing into the seat for stability. I could see the landmark buildings and high rises. Then, suddenly, we lurched into a steep climb—our landing aborted. The city lights below faded rapidly as we climbed back into the dense darkness.

The intercom chimed, and the pilot’s voice cut through the uneasy silence:

“Due to heavy winds near the surface, we were unable to land. We will circle and attempt another approach.”

Attempt two: The turbulence was worse. I watched the wing shake as the cityscape came into view. Then—another sudden ascent.

Attempt three. Even more violent. Passengers were now visibly ill; flight attendants hurriedly distributed motion sickness bags when we leveled off.

Attempt four. The same gut-wrenching pattern. The aircraft shook violently. My eyes were fixed on the wing. It was flapping as if it might snap. The fourth attempt felt closest. We approached over water, the familiar low urban approach into LaGuardia. I prayed intensely as water give way to land. I thought, this is it—we’re landing. But then—another abrupt climb.

A collective gasp of terror and despair filled the cabin. Followed by a silence that was deafening. No passengers spoke. Even the pilots remained quiet, undoubtedly giving this relentless battle against the wind their undivided attention.

In the absence of information, I turned to the flight map. It now displayed an estimated arrival time back to Toronto. My heart sank. If conditions here were this treacherous, what awaited us at Pearson?

The intercom chimed again, the pilot’s voice calm but firm:

“We will not attempt a fifth landing due to fuel constraints. We are heading back.”

A wave of confusion spread through the cabin. Passengers exchanged panicked glances. Then, the collective question, I also joined in:

“Heading back, where?”

The intercom beeped once more.

“Back to Toronto.”

The flight map was indeed correct. We are heading back to Toronto!

Minutes passed. Then another chime.

“We are diverting to Hamilton—we do not have enough fuel to reach Toronto.”

Every plane crash story and movie I had ever watched flashed through my mind. This was the moment for faith and self-talk. I whispered reassurances to myself, willing my body to remain calm as I prayed.

We landed in Hamilton with a jarring thud. Passengers, desperate for solid ground, rose from their seats before we even stopped moving. The pilot’s voice returned:

“We will refuel and return to Toronto. Please remain seated.”

Tensions rose. The flight attendants did their best to soothe frayed nerves. The line for the bathrooms stretched the length of the small plane.

Our only sustenance? Pretzels and water.

Four hours later, after refueling and de-icing, we were airborne again. By this point, exhaustion had dulled my fear.

At almost 4 a.m., nearly 12 hours after our journey began, we arrived back at Pearson—right where we started. The baggage claim area was packed with hundreds of stranded passengers. My suitcase, like so many others, was nowhere to be found.

By the time the ordeal ended—including the scramble to secure another flight—it was nearly 4 p.m. I had been in travel mode for 24 hours for a trip that should have taken 1.5.

No sooner had I settled at home than the news broke:

A Delta Air Lines regional jet had crash-landed at Pearson. The plane flipped upon landing due to strong crosswinds and heavy snow. Miraculously, all passengers survived, though some were injured.

I stared at the TV screen, my body still buzzing from adrenaline.

My straddling that thin line between routine travel and catastrophe had never been closer.

And in that moment I’m reminded of how the convergence of severe weather and aviation underscores that delicate balance between safety and the unpredictability of nature. 

Reflecting on my own harrowing experience, I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude. 

I still have a flight ahead of me to get back to my second home. Praying for safe travel has never had such profound meaning.

2025 All Rights Reserved

Like what you see? To never miss a post click HERE👈 to subscribe & follow the blog. There’s more HERE👈 and on Spillwords, the Writers Club & Facebook.

In creative solidarity, Dee