Nora Almazan
I didn’t expect to cry.
But as the basket lifted slowly off the dew-kissed ground in Helen, Georgia, rising like a secret finally whispered to the sky, tears slipped down my cheek. They weren’t from fear, or even joy exactly—but from awe.
The Helen to the Atlantic Balloon Race is a beloved tradition in Northeast Georgia. This celebration draws dreamers, adventurers, and families each summer to this Bavarian-style town nestled in the Blue Ridge Mountains. I had seen the balloons before—colorful orbs dotting the horizon like storybook illustrations. But this year, I didn’t just watch. I flew.
We met at dawn. The field buzzed with quiet excitement, and the smell of propane lingered in the cool mountain air. I watched crews work in choreographed motion, inflating brilliant giants that swelled with life—reds, yellows, blues, and even a checkered one that reminded me of a quilt my grandmother once made.
The pilot, a soft-spoken man with laugh lines etched deep into his face, gave me the basics and reassured me with a wink: “The wind knows where we’re going. We enjoy the ride.”
And then—like something out of a dream—we lifted.
No rush, no jolt. Just weightlessness. We floated. The sound of the burner roared briefly and then fell silent, giving way to the soft hush of the morning breeze. The world below shrank into watercolor patches of trees and rooftops. Helen’s iconic Alpine buildings looked like a miniature village. The Chattahoochee River wound like a silver ribbon beneath us.
From above, everything felt… different. Softer. Kinder.
I saw families waving from driveways and open fields, their faces lit with wonder. I watched deer scatter through meadows and hawks soar at eye level. I thought about all the things that weigh us down—worries, regrets, expectations—and how none of it mattered up here.
There is something about ballooning that strips away the noise of life. Up there, in that sacred silence between earth and sky, I remembered who I was before the rush and ache of adulthood. I remembered how to be.
We drifted for nearly an hour. Time, like gravity, seemed suspended. When we finally landed in a farmer’s field, bouncing gently once, then twice, laughter erupted in our basket. Strangers hugged. I cried again.
Later, as we sipped celebratory bourbon and shared stories, someone asked what it felt like. I thought for a moment and said, “It felt like flying with your soul.”
It all starts again this week in Northeast Georgia. Whether you take flight or watch the skies, let it remind you: we were never meant to stay grounded forever.
Sometimes, the most important thing we can do is rise.
