I’m in the cockpit of an Air Force trainer jet during a muggy Del Rio, Texas summer. A qualified instructor pilot sits to my right, closer than an arm’s length away in an already suffocatingly-confined space. We have a duplicate set of controls, but it’s my hands on the stick and throttles as we come in for our third landing attempt of the day.

My eyes are focused on the 150-foot wide patch of asphalt in front of us, less than a quarter mile away, and getting closer.

My breath quickens as I suck in all the oxygen my mask will dole out.

The rubber mask, attached to my helmet, is clamped tightly over my face, trapping the olfactory blend of jet fuel, pure oxygen and the sweat of a student pilot desperately trying to earn her wings.

The control tower radio call barks a not-unfamiliar command into my helmet earpieces, “ON FINAL – GO AROUND!”

This means I’m not allowed to land but I can come around and try landing again.

The pilot next to me grunts, “My aircraft!” jerking the stick of his dual controls to indicate he is now in charge of the plane.

He slams the throttles forward, achieving escape velocity from my poor performance and his frustration.

As we accelerate safely away from the ground, he verbalizes what the control tower cannot say over the air, “Barrett! Are you even looking outside the cockpit? Can’t you see you’re not lined up on centerline!  PULL. YOUR. HEAD. OUT!”

Air Force pilot training is when I discover I am exceptional … ly bad at landings.

I hold the distinct honor of being the first person in my class of 21 pilot candidates to receive the grade of “Unsatisfactory” for a flight, because of my landings.

I also hold the distinct honor of being the second person in my class of 21 pilot candidates to receive the grade of “Unsatisfactory” for a flight, because of my landings.

There’s an adage that any landing you can walk away from is a good one. I’m just not clear if limping is considered a walk, because most of the instructors who have flown with me have a near-permanent limp as their badge of proof.

Each unsatisfactory landing shortens the list of instructor pilots who are physically unbruised enough to fly with me and each unsatisfactory grade puts me one flight closer to NOT becoming a pilot.

So, if I am going to be a pilot, I’m going to have to figure out this landing thing.

The most memorable part of my landing seems to be the actual landings which make quite an impression, by making quite a compression on the spine. All instructor feedback includes 4-letter words and a verbal contract to never, ever fly with me again, so help them God.

Instructors attribute my airplane-bouncing finish on my poor runway alignment during final approach.

Admittedly, trying to line up on a runway a mile and a quarter long when it’s 5 miles away seems like a lower priority than ensuring the safe control of a 2 ton aircraft putting out 2,000 pounds of thrust slowing to 125 MPH for landing. But, since the people telling me alignment will help with landing are wearing the silver pilot wings I covet, I decide there might be some credence to the hypothesis.

The next day, I’m sitting in an empty flight planning room. My eyes scan one wall completely consumed by a magnetic dry erase board that displays the flying schedule. Each magnetic puc has the last name of my pilot training classmates who are out slipping the surly bonds of earth because they, unlike me, have grasped how to land a plane.

The “Barrett” puc sulks alone in the “unassigned students” section at the bottom right corner of the board. An optimistic, yet-to-be-bruised instructor walks in. He grabs my puc and snaps it onto the board, making a magnetic commitment that he is heroically willing to step to a jet with me after the requisite pre-flight briefing.

We sit at a small table, a blank piece of paper between us.

I know he’s writing down everything to do with landing a plane. So rather than stare at the same information every other instructor has relayed, I commiserate with my magnetic puc. I gaze at its lonely representation as the only ground-bound student pilot.

“Barrett, are you paying attention?” My current instructor interrupts my pity party.

“Yes, sir,” I lie.

I decide to comply and see he is, in fact, drawing the only landing technique any instructor ever teaches: “centerline, aimpoint, airspeed.”  The mantra is just a reminder to pick and aim at a point at the end of the runway, controlling your airspeed until you get to the aimpoint, where you begin your transition to land.

Every instructor taught centerline, aimpoint, airspeed.

Every student understood centerline, aimpoint, airspeed.

Except me.

I drift off, wondering what job I’ll have in the Air Force since the odds of being a pilot are against me. Then I hear my instructor mention something unusual.

I look down at the sketch on the paper between us. I see the runway, the centerline, an ‘x’ for the aimpoint … and … something else.

He has drawn what looks like a barn on the end of the runway. Not at or near the end of the runway, on the end of the runway.

I confirm, “Is that a barn?”

“Yup.”

“What about ‘centerline, aimpoint, airspeed’?”

He explains (for a second time, since clearly I missed the first pass at this landing technique), “That centerline is your most important focus. You have to land on centerline to keep the plane on the runway and clear of obstacles beyond the runway.”

“And the barn?”

“That imaginary barn will help focus your efforts on the centerline. Put your aimpoint right inside those front doors. And when you get there, fly through the barn, then transition to land.”

Outwardly I nod at this novel technique.

Inwardly, my head shakes incredulously at the additional task he is demanding of me.

Landing a plane already includes a ton of things:

Compensating for the wind;

Listening and responding to air traffic control;

Looking out for other aircraft, being flown by other unqualified pilot wanna be’s;

Dealing with the quirks of that particular plane on that particular day;

Quieting the chatter inside my head doubting me in my own fight to become a

pilot;

Oh and of course, remembering to pull my head out.

And now this guy is adding a barn to my crosscheck?

With so few people willing to get in a plane with me, I have to be willing to try anything, no matter how ridiculous it seems.

So the crazy barnstormer and I head out to the plane.

He does the first takeoff and demonstrates a landing, talking us through the barn as he executes a graceful, soft landing.

And then it’s my turn.

I take off. I could do that.

Now, I’m coming in to land.

Aimpoint – picked out.

Airspeed – under control.

Centerline – eh, well, close enough. This is government work after all.

My instructor reminds me of the barn (as if I could forget) and my imagination completes the details: rust-red paint peeling off the wooden sides, daylight flooding in through the far open doors, trace scents of hay and manure blend with that fragrance of jet fuel, oxygen and desperate student pilot sweat.

This barn even has a backstory complete with a farmer, her crops and her asshole neighbor slowly encroaching on her property.

But there’s no time for that. This is just about the barn.

I aim for the front doors of the barn and duck as we enter (I can’t be the only one who makes their vehicle  lower by crouching down when entering a parking garage). I glide through the long barn, my eyes trained on the back of the barn where I picture sunlight piercing the darkness.

I get to where my instructor’s barn had ended (we used the same architect), ready to start my transition to land.

But there is no transition to land, because in the midst of all that barnstorming, I have already landed. I have touched down gracefully on centerline and only once. No bounce, no bruise.

We beat up the pattern for another hour with no different results. Every time I use the barn technique, I have perfect landings. No one outside the cockpit has to order me to go around and try another landing. No one inside the cockpit has to take control and fly the plane. I am able to concentrate my focus, overcome the distractions that had prevented me from staying lined up and landing gently on centerline.

After the flight, my instructor and I stare quizzically at each other. He doesn’t understand how I had earned my landing reputation and I don’t understand why no one else has taught me this technique. His ownership of my inability to land a plane and his ability to think outside the barn gave me a new perspective and approach. The mechanics of how to land a plane hadn’t changed; my ability to execute those procedures had.

Everyone else only needed centerline, aimpoint and airspeed.

I needed a barn.

Because my instructor varied his approach of instruction, he  changed my perspective and altered my professional trajectory. Shame on me for not realizing then how pivotal that instructor was in my career path.  We may never know what small piece of advice or detail connects the dots in someone else’s world.

Changing our perspective and approach doesn’t apply just to landing a plane. It  applies to our life of self-discovery.  We read books on leadership, listen to podcasts on self-improvement, devour articles about discovering our true self and subscribe to groups facilitating personal problem solving.

When we vary our sources of knowledge, we improve the chance of meeting someone who provides that slightly different perspective that makes all the difference. That person who puts a barn on the end of our runway.

And if you are that someone who only needs centerline, aimpoint and airspeed, then my hope is you’ll share your perspective with others. By sharing our own techniques, we develop a deeper and longer-lasting understanding of the subject or task, leveraging our cumulative knowledge and experience.

And who knows? That little piece of information you possess could be the flight plan to help someone else take off (or land).

Your fresh approach might be their barn.

So continue your flight and Fight For Centerline.