As an in-flight attendant for a VIP charter airline, my life was a curious paradox. We flew three, maybe four, times a month. The rest of the time, I existed in a suspended state of readiness, awaiting the next flight. It was the dream job—no complaints about pay, no rush to meet deadlines. Whether I was in the sky or on standby, I was still getting paid. The kind of life many would envy. Add to that the fact that I lived with my aging parents—well into their seventies—and you’d think I was living the quintessential ‘dream life’. I could spend my days doing whatever I wanted, at my own pace, with no real responsibilities to tie me down. Life, from the outside, seemed like an endless vacation.
But the outside doesn’t always reflect the inside, does it?
Underneath the glossy surface, a sense of unease gnawed at me. I was living in a self-made cocoon of luxury, but it felt like I was suffocating in it. I could afford to be idle, and so I was. I wasn’t sure who I was anymore though. The title of “flight attendant” seemed to slip off me like water on silk. I had moments when I’d stare at the ceiling, wondering if this life was meant for someone else. The question kept plaguing me: “How can you have everything you need, yet still feel so…empty?”
Imagine the strange disconnect of having a job that pays well but doesn’t use you as much as you’d want them to. Welcome to my world of professional ennui, where the scarcity of flights became a metaphor for my lack of purpose. I didn’t have the vibrant social life that seemed to follow others—no endless dinners with friends or spontaneous weekend getaways. Instead, I would shop mindlessly to fill the hollow space, book massages to temporarily soften the tension, and sit alone in coffee shops, reading books I could never seem to finish. When I wasn’t buying things I didn’t need, I would sit through films that barely resonated with me, only to leave theatres feeling more isolated than when I entered. All the while, my social media portrayed a curated version of me, one that could have fooled anyone into thinking I was living the best life. The price? A gaping hole in my bank account, all to stave off the shame of FOMO.
But then, something shifted. The self-loathing had its expiry date. After a couple of years of aimless drifting, I realized it was time to take stock. I had a life brimming with privileges—yes, they were the ones I had long taken for granted. I started to focus on what I could do with my free time. I found a sense of liberation in learning new things. I invested in short-term courses, became more disciplined, and cultivated the kind of habits that would make even the most successful entrepreneurs look on in envy. The more I embraced what I had, the more my life seemed to change.
Of course, there were those moments—the ones where I would feel a twinge of jealousy when I’d compare my life to the glitzy lives of others. I’d look at their packed social calendars, their perfectly curated Instagram posts, and wonder: Why isn’t my life as exciting as theirs? Why wasn’t I partying until dawn? Why wasn’t I doing more? Why did my clothes, the beautiful ones I had bought impulsively during moments of weakness, just sit there, collecting dust in my closet?
It was then that I decided to clean my living space. Not just physically, but emotionally, too. I gave away things I no longer needed—clothes that didn’t serve me, old habits that no longer suited who I wanted to be. My room became my sanctuary, my space to create. And in the process of micro- organizing and redesigning, I discovered a passion for interior design—one that had been buried deep inside me, likely inherited from my dad, an interior designer himself.
I also began designing my own clothes, getting them custom-tailored. I was good at it—better than I had expected. And then, one day, something unexpected happened. While mindlessly posting yet another reel on Instagram, my dentist, one of my all-too-quiet followers, dropped a comment that would change everything. She said I had the flair to inspire others, that I should consider becoming an image consultant. And that, my friends, was the spark I didn’t know I needed.
I researched, studied, and enrolled in an image consultation institute and got my certification within a span of a year. Over the course of six years, I went from the quiet, self-doubting flight attendant to a multifaceted, certified image consultant with a host of talents I had never imagined. Yoga, Bharatanatyam, astrology, snooker—each skill I picked up along the way felt like another small piece falling into place. But even with all these new accomplishments, the question lingered: Was I truly happy now?
I had reinvented myself, taken flight in ways I never thought possible, yet there was still a question mark hanging over my life. All these new talents, all these new interests—what was I supposed to do with them? And as that thought gnawed at me, I realized something profound: happiness isn’t a destination—it’s a journey. I had spent so much time looking for a purpose that I forgot to enjoy the process. The point wasn’t having everything figured out—it was about learning, growing, and finding joy in the mess of it all.
In the end, was I happy? I wasn’t sure. But I was certainly more fulfilled than I had ever been. And that, in itself, felt like a victory.
As I look back on my journey, I realize that life isn’t about having it all figured out or meeting a predefined expectation. It’s about embracing the uncertainties, finding meaning in the moments of solitude, and discovering your own path, no matter how winding it may be. I’ve learned that happiness isn’t something you chase; it’s something you build with the pieces you already have. And in the end, it’s not the destination that matters, but the quiet satisfaction of knowing you’re constantly evolving, constantly becoming. The beauty of life lies not in perfection, but in the courage to keep moving forward, one flight at a time.