I didn’t grow up dreaming of flying. It just happened: a job interview, a plane ticket to Doha, and suddenly, I was living in the Middle East, dressed in burgundy, serving meals at 40,000 feet.
Now, the world feels both enormous and weirdly repetitive. New countries every week, but the same hotel rooms, same safety demos, same polite smile. People assume we live this jet-set fantasy, and yes, there are perks. I’ve watched cherry blossoms in Tokyo, eaten street food in Bangkok, and walked through snowfall in Prague. But most days, it’s not the postcard version you see on Instagram.
It’s waking up disoriented, forgetting which country you’re in. It’s brushing on lipstick when your body just wants to sleep. It’s standing for hours, holding back irritation while a passenger yells because his preferred meal ran out. It’s checking your reflection in the galley mirror and wondering when you last looked like yourself.
Still, there are moments that feel unreal: a child waving at me like I’m a superhero, a sunrise stretching across the sky as we cross the Atlantic, or the quiet bond with a fellow crew member as we sip tea during a night flight.
Living in Doha feels like being in transit, even when we’re on the ground. Rules are strict. Expectations high. We’re ambassadors of the airline 24/7, even at the grocery store. I’ve learned to keep my guard up, always polite, always composed.
But when we land and the seatbelt sign goes off, I often feel a quiet pride. We got them there safely. We managed chaos with grace. We made a little flying metal tube feel, briefly, like home.
Maybe I’ll leave this life one day. Settle down. Sleep normal hours. But until then, I’ll keep flying not for the glamour, not for the destinations, but for the strange, fleeting beauty that lives in the space between departure and arrival.