At 35,000 feet, time bends. Days melt into nights, languages blur, and I forget what city I woke up in. I’m a flight attendant based in Doha, Qatar, and no, it’s not all lipstick and layovers.
People imagine this job as glamorous. And yes, there are moments: sipping espresso in Rome, watching the Northern Lights above Iceland, walking through Tokyo’s neon maze at midnight. But behind every polished smile is a 16-hour shift, aching feet, jet lag that feels like a hangover, and passengers who sometimes forget we’re human.
I live in company housing with four other women, each from a different continent. We bond over instant noodles, broken sleep, and stories from the skies. I’ve learned to say “chicken or beef?” in five languages, and I’ve mastered the art of comforting a crying baby while mediating a seat dispute between strangers.
In an airline like Qatar, life is filled with contradiction. There is luxury but yet its compromised. We represent the airline on and off duty, so there’s no room for messy nights or Instagram scandals. Uniforms must be immaculate, hair, tight, attitude, always polite.
Still, I stay. Because the skies have become my freedom. Up there, I’m neither Sri Lankan nor expat, neither daughter nor sister. I’m just me, weightless, neutral, moving. Watching sunrises from the cockpit jumpseat reminds me why I chose this life.
Do I get lonely? Absolutely. I miss weddings, birthdays, and even funerals. I video-call home from crew lounges, sometimes in tears. But I’ve also learned resilience, the kind that comes from being alone in foreign cities with nothing but a suitcase and a layover hotel key.
This job changes you. You develop radar for people’s moods and become a pro at reading body language. You also see kindness, a stranger helping an older man with his bag, a mother thanking you for simply smiling at her toddler.
Maybe I’ll quit in a year. Maybe I won’t. For now, the sky is home. And that’s enough.
