Mick and I were in first class when I saw a young soldier in uniform walk by. He couldn’t have been much older than twenty. Baby-faced. Fresh. Carrying himself with the careful posture of someone still getting used to the weight of what he’d signed up for. And I immediately wanted to give my seat to him. Didn’t think. Didn’t calculate. Just knew, instinctively, that this person—who’d volunteered to serve, to put himself in harm’s way, to do something most of us never will—deserved more comfort than I did on this flight.
I asked the flight attendant if we could offer our seats. She teared up. Said such a gesture felt rare. And she asked him. The young soldier’s face went through a series of emotions. Surprise. Confusion. Hesitation. This wasn’t something he’d expected. Wasn’t something he thought he deserved. He asked, almost apologetically, if we were sure. And we were. Absolutely. Mick gave him his seat. The soldier sat down, clearly overwhelmed, and I learned something that broke my heart: he’d never sat in first class before.
Sitting next to this new dad—because that’s what he was, a father, barely out of boyhood himself—I learned more. Learned about his life. His family. The baby waiting for him at home. The deployment he was heading toward. The uncertainty that comes with military service when you’re young and everything feels both infinite and fragile. And as we talked, something else became clear. Something that made me angry and sad in equal measure.
What broke my heart wasn’t just that he’d never experienced this small luxury before. It was that fourteen other first-class passengers—mostly business suits, people who fly first class regularly, people for whom this was routine—hadn’t given this deserving young man a second thought. They’d walked past him. Settled into their leather seats. Ordered their drinks. And never once considered that maybe, just maybe, the person in uniform walking to the back of the plane deserved their spot more than they did.
I don’t say this to shame anyone specifically. I say it because it’s a reflection of something larger. We’ve normalized comfort for ourselves and forgotten to look around. Forgotten to ask who might need it more. Forgotten that gestures like giving up a seat aren’t just about physical comfort. They’re about recognition. About saying, I see what you’re doing. I see what you’ve sacrificed. And I want to honor that.
Our guardians deserve to fly first class every damn time. Not as a rule. Not as an entitlement. But as a gesture of gratitude from a society that benefits from their service. These are people who sign up knowing they might be asked to give everything. Who leave families behind. Who endure hardships most of us can’t imagine. And the least we can do—the absolute bare minimum—is offer them a comfortable seat on a plane when we have the chance.
The young soldier was gracious. Kept thanking us. Kept saying it wasn’t necessary. But we could see it meant something. Could see him relax into the seat. Could see the tension ease from his shoulders. Could see, for a few hours, he wasn’t worrying about what was coming next. He was just being comfortable. Being cared for. Being recognized. And that mattered. It mattered to him. And it mattered to us.
When we landed, he thanked us again. Shook our hands. Said he’d never forget it. And we told him the truth: that we’d never forget him. That meeting him reminded us what service looks like. What courage looks like. What it means to be someone who puts others first, even when it costs everything. And that if we could do one small thing to make his journey a little easier, it was the least we could do.
I think about that flight often. About the fourteen passengers who didn’t offer. Not because they’re bad people. But because it didn’t occur to them. Because we’ve gotten so comfortable in our own bubbles that we forget to look outside them. And I wonder how many other opportunities we miss. How many times we could make someone’s day, ease someone’s burden, recognize someone’s sacrifice—and we just don’t. Because we’re not paying attention. Because we’re not asking the right questions.
So here’s my question: Next time you’re in first class and you see someone in uniform, will you offer your seat? Next time you have something someone else needs more, will you give it up? Not for recognition. Not for praise. But because it’s right. Because gratitude isn’t just a feeling. It’s an action. And our guardians—our soldiers, our service members, our protectors—deserve that action. Every single time.