The world feels smaller when you see it through the window of a Boeing 777 at sunrise. I’m a flight attendant based in Doha, and my life is a series of takeoffs, landings, and the strange in-between of airports and hotel rooms.
People ask, “Is it glamorous?” Sometimes. There are days I’m sipping coffee in Paris or wandering the streets of Cape Town between flights. But for every picture-perfect moment, there’s a red-eye flight where my smile feels stitched on, my legs ache, and I can’t remember when I last slept on a normal schedule. Glamour isn’t the word; discipline is.
Doha is my base, but “home” is complicated. I share an apartment with other crew members from all over the world: Brazil, Kenya, and the Philippines. We’re like family, sharing stories of difficult passengers and crazy layovers while eating whatever we can whip up before the next flight call.
This job teaches you patience like nothing else. I’ve learned how to calm down a passenger having a panic attack at 2 a.m., handle turbulence with a poker face, and offer endless cups of tea with a smile, even when I’m running on three hours of sleep. Behind the polished uniform and the perfect red lipstick is someone constantly fighting jet lag, dehydration, and the longing for familiar faces.
But the sky rewards you. There’s a kind of magic in watching lightning storms from above, or landing in a city I’ve only read about in books. I’ve learned to appreciate fleeting connections, a conversation with a fellow crew member over midnight noodles, a passenger’s heartfelt thank-you after a stressful flight.
Will I do this forever? Probably not. But right now, this is my life untethered, unpredictable, and strangely addictive. Up here, between continents and time zones, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m meant to be.