As I walk through Hamad International Airport in heels, hair slicked into a bun, burgundy hat angled just right. Some people stare, some admire, and others are curious. To them, I am a symbol of luxury and wanderlust. To me, I’m just reporting for duty.
I’m a flight attendant based in Qatar. My office? A pressurized tube hurtling through the sky at 900 km/h. My workday? Could start at 3 a.m. and end in a country where I don’t speak the language, but have memorized the route to the crew hotel.
We fly with strangers and return to empty apartments. We are trained to remain calm through emergencies, medical issues, and even midair arguments over reclining seats. I’ve been called “waitress,” “angel,” and once, “the devil,” all in the same flight.
Qatar has rules, many of them. No tattoos visible. No chewing gum in uniform. No public opinions that could be interpreted the wrong way. You learn quickly how to smile without revealing too much of your life, your thoughts, your exhaustion.
Still, there’s something addictive about the lifestyle. Every flight is a reset: a new crew, new passengers, new drama, new grace. I’ve danced in Nairobi, watched the sunset in Santorini, cried in a hotel bathroom in London, and laughed until sunrise in Kuala Lumpur. You grow fast when your world keeps changing every 48 hours.
There are so many sacrifices made . I’ve missed weddings. I’ve eaten Christmas dinner alone in a food court. I’ve comforted passengers while silently grieving someone of my own. But I’ve also witnessed raw humanity and kindness from strangers, shared smiles across cultures, and passengers who thank you just for listening.
Sometimes I think of quitting. Then I board a flight, walk past the cockpit, feel the hum of the engines, and remember: the sky, with all its chaos and calm, still feels like home.
So I fasten my name badge, adjust my scarf, and prepare for another flight. Another city. Another story.