Every time the aircraft door closes, a different version of me takes over. The calm, composed, and perfectly groomed professional who can pour coffee during turbulence and smile through anything. But when the doors open again, I’m just a woman living out of a suitcase, chasing rest across time zones.
I’m based in Doha, the hub of luxury and control. Our uniforms are pristine, our conduct monitored, our social media policed. From the outside, it’s polished. From the inside, it’s precision and pressure. We are expected to be perfect at 40,000 feet, no excuses.
Don’t get me wrong, I love flying. There’s a strange peace in the hum of the engines and the flicker of cabin lights during a night flight. I’ve seen the deserts of Namibia, the fjords of Norway, and the madness of Mumbai all within a month. But no one tells you how much you’ll miss normal life. A lazy Sunday. A kitchen that’s yours. A hug that’s not through a screen.
Passengers come in all forms: kind, impatient, scared, rude, grateful. Some speak to you like you’re invisible. Others treat you like a lifeline when their fear of flying kicks in. I’ve held hands during turbulence, shared tissues after breakups, and once even helped deliver a baby midair. We’re not just waitresses in the sky, we’re responders, caretakers, diplomats in navy heels.
Doha is beautiful in a curated way. Life here feels like a jewelry box, organized, gleaming, closed shut after hours. Off-duty, I walk the Corniche with earbuds in, watching the skyline blink at dusk. It’s peaceful, but it’s not home. Still, I stay.
Because when the cabin lights dim and the passengers sleep, and I’m standing alone near the galley with a warm cup of tea, there’s a stillness that makes it all worth it. In that moment, I don’t feel lost. I feel free.