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Jim straps my hip with his, binding both of us into one solid entity. “What prompts you to do this?” Jim asks, rousing me from my chaotic state of mind. “I am going back in two days,” I reply, nonchalantly, meeting his gaze. I hold my hands in my lap, clenching and unclenching them rhythmically, like a heartbeat as the aircraft takes off. As a Pakistani girl raised in a protective, middle-class family, I was thrilled when I was awarded a funded opportunity to spend a semester in United States. I had just turned 20 and was hungry to experience the world. My parents bid me farewell with teary eyes, their lips fluttering with silent prayers. I arrived in the small town of Cleveland pursued by a humid, fall wind. My time in the States was spent enjoying my newfound independence, however, I was unprepared for the numbing loneliness which made my heart ache for home. In Islam, poultry is slaughtered in a particular manner making it halal, permissible for Muslims to eat. With no halal options, I was forced to survive on cheese pizzas and salads. On Eid, I reminisced for the cozy, colorful celebrations of Pakistan while I sat in my isolated dorm room and craved for my mother’s yakhni soup as I battled flu alone. My brown skin color also stood out amongst a sea of white leading to curious questions: So, in Paaaik-is-tan, girls can travel alone? Do you have buildings in your country? How can you speak English? Is it even taught in Pakistan?! Oh, you come from where Malala comes from, right? I answered with enthusiasm but was surprised at the negative connotation attached with ‘my part of the world’. My culturally rich and hospitable country had shrunk to an image of violence which began an internal war inside of me and added a subconscious pressure on me to change that perception. Like a ferocious mother protecting her new-born, I began to guard my country’s image. The constant need to justify my space as a Pakistani, as a “South Asian girl” became exhausting. The months eventually passed and it was time to go home, to Pakistan. The Floridian clouds momentarily part to reveal a pale blue sky; then another cloud appears, obscuring it with grey. I can see vast rich green patches of fields spreading out. My heart thuds in my chest like a hammer and I drum my fingers as I take heavy breaths to stave off the panic that threatens to engulf me. Anna, my videographer shoves a camera in my face, 12000 feet above the ground. “Just a few minutes to go! How do you feel?!” she yells above the chatter, her face lit with exuberance. I muster a wide smile and a thumbs up. My lips flutter but no words come out. Five minutes later, Jim gestures and thrusts me ahead to the mouth of the aircraft. The wind shrieks into my ears and the pressure propels my head backwards. An icy shiver of fear runs down my spine as Jim pushes my head backwards. I can see his lips moving but the wind drowns his voice. I feel a push and a sharp pain in my back. I jump. We jump. I feel my heart drop. The sun burns lazily though small puffs of white clouds. In these past four months, I had lived under the false assumption that I was independent in the States. But as I free-fall, I experience true, unbounded freedom. Up in the sky, I am no longer boxed by the stereotype of a brown, Muslim, Pakistani girl anymore. Instead, I feel limitless as the world stretches before me, inviting me to be a part of it. THIS is my part of the world as well. My skin color, neither my distinct accent can stop me from owning this part. My feet touch the ground. Jim looks at me with concern as my face is rinsed with tears. He gives me a proud smile and squeezes my shoulder. And even though no words are exchanged, I know that he understands. I smile back.