Many people romanticize my job. They ask me, “You must love travelling,” they say, imagining champagne in Paris or shopping in Milan. I smile politely because that’s what I’m trained to do. But the truth is far more than that, being a flight attendant based in Qatar is more discipline than a dream.
Our days start before sunrise and end long after the last passenger has disembarked. We navigate time zones like a second language. One night I’m walking through Seoul, the next I’m sleep-deprived in São Paulo, hunting for blackout curtains in a hotel room that smells like someone else’s life.
Don’t get me wrong, there’s beauty in it. The kind that sneaks up on you. Like the quiet glow of the cabin when everyone’s asleep, or the surreal silence above the clouds during a night flight, I’ve had strangers share their heartbreaks over plastic cups of wine. I’ve watched a nervous first-time flyer hold their breath during takeoff, then exhale in wonder. That’s the magic, small, fleeting, real.
But there’s also loneliness. You miss birthdays. You miss routines. Sometimes, you miss yourself. We live in Doha, but most of us exist out of our suitcases. Company housing is a patchwork of cultures and coping mechanisms. You learn to form friendships fast over instant coffee, layover tips, or shared silence after a rough flight.
I’ve become a master of appearing composed even when turbulence hits, even when passengers shout. Behind every calm announcement is a checklist I’ve rehearsed a hundred times. Safety is not just a line in the manual. It’s our religion.
Why do I stay? Because the sky, for all its chaos, gives me a strange kind of peace. Up there, the world makes a little more sense. No borders, no politics, just people trying to get somewhere, and us trying to help them get there.
It’s not a perfect job. But it’s mine. And for now, the sky still feels like where I belong.