Russ Eisenman

People ask me all the time where confidence comes from. Most people think it comes from winning. From succeeding over and over until you finally believe in yourself. I don’t think that’s true. I think confidence comes from surviving the moments that scare the hell out of you. Mine started when I was five. In 1978, my mom sat me down and told me we were moving from Los Angeles to San Jose. My dad wasn’t coming. They had split up, and if I wanted both of my parents in my life, I was going to have to fly back and forth by myself every other weekend. I was five years old. Today they call kids like that unaccompanied minors. Back then, it was just a little kid with a ticket, a flight attendant holding his hand, and two parents trying to convince themselves this was going to be okay. I remember almost every second of that first trip. The drive to the airport. Looking over at my dad. I don’t remember exactly what he said. I just remember how sad he looked. At five, I couldn’t explain what I was seeing, but I knew this wasn’t just another trip. I remember walking through the terminal holding a flight attendant’s hand. Everyone looked so big. They were all strangers. The airport felt loud and enormous. Then we got to the airplane. This is the part I’ve never forgotten. Right before I stepped through the door, I stopped. I took one deep breath. I reached out and put my hand on the side of the airplane. Then I climbed aboard. I wasn’t brave. I was scared to death. But I got on anyway. I sat next to an older woman who could tell exactly what was going on. She talked to me the whole flight. I don’t remember her name. I don’t even remember what we talked about. I just remember how she made me feel. Safe. When we landed, something had changed. Not because flying wasn’t scary anymore. Because I had just learned that being afraid didn’t mean I couldn’t do it. I’ve thought about that little boy so many times over the years. When I changed careers. When I bet on myself. When I was told I had Stage IV cancer. When life handed me another impossible decision and there wasn’t a clear answer. Every time, I somehow find myself back at that airplane door. Take a breath. Put my hand on it. Step through. People tell me I’m resilient. They say I’m fearless. The truth is, I’m neither. I’m just a five-year-old kid who learned that courage isn’t something you’re born with. It’s something you practice. And none of that would have happened without my mom. She looked at a scared little boy and believed he could do something he didn’t believe he could do himself. She gave me something that has lasted my entire life. Not confidence. Evidence. Evidence that I could walk into something terrifying and come out the other side. I’ve spent the rest of my life borrowing from that first flight.