I was born at a time when cassette tapes ruled, and the internet was still a distant dream. By the time I turned 18, a new century had dawned, and with it came a sense of hope and optimism. The world was changing rapidly, and I was on the brink of adulthood, with the world at my feet and dreams as vast as the sky.
From a young age, I had a singular dream: to fly aircraft. Perhaps it was inevitable, given my upbringing. My mum, a remarkable woman, had turned a small, loss-making company into a multi-million-euro organisation. She chartered large cargo aircraft and handled logistics herself, which meant I spent a lot of time at airports. Before the 2000s, security wasn’t the tight fortress it is today, so I had my own airport pass and spent countless hours exploring the aircraft. I’d hang around, hoping the bush pilot operators had “dead legs” so I could hitch a ride. They often let me take the controls during the cruise, and it was in those moments that I knew: I was born to be a pilot.
So, when I told my mum about my dream, I was shocked by her reaction. She didn’t support it. I was hurt and angry, thinking she was questioning my ability. It took me years to understand what she was really saying. My mum wanted me to have a degree, to ensure I had something to fall back on in case flying didn’t work out.
Reluctantly, I enrolled in a business degree. To fund my flying lessons, I worked multiple jobs—waitressing, exercising horses, and even shelving books at the university library. My determination never wavered. I also applied to the Air Force and was accepted. When my mum saw how committed I was, she had a change of heart and decided to pay for my licence. I worked hard, loving every minute in the cockpit. I still remember the special moments: my first solo flight, taking my mum on a girls’ weekend and battling strong headwinds, and flying my brother and sister to a massive water park.
Finally, I earned my commercial licence, and it was time to find a job. But the world had changed drastically since I first took to the skies. Unlike in Europe, where pilots typically follow a straightforward path, the rest of the world adheres to an American system. You often spend a decade or so flying for smaller companies before qualifying for an airline position. Unfortunately, my timing couldn’t have been worse. A few months after I completed my licence, the tragic events of September 11, 2001, shook the world.
The pilot shortage that had existed at the start of my training vanished almost overnight. In fact, the situation reversed. Pilots were out of work, and seasoned aviators were taking positions that were usually reserved for newcomers like me. The job hunt was a genuine struggle.
Many of my friends decided to become instructors, but I wanted to see the world. So, I packed my life into my car and drove into the bush to find adventure. I offered my services to a company as a gopher for free, hoping they would employ me when the tourist season started. Once it did, I began flying for them in a small single-engined aircraft, dodging thunderstorms, and clearing game from dirt runways before I could land. I was having the time of my life, but unfortunately, my salary barely covered rent and food. We were really grateful for tips and overnight stays at the lodges, where all meals were provided. So, after gaining that all-important 1,500 hours, I needed to move on.
I set about getting my ATPL and moved on to twin turbines, flying as a co-pilot. My destinations were far from the glamour of London, Paris, and New York; instead, they were places like Lokichogio, Baghdad, and Tehran.
I was flying humanitarian missions over the snow-covered Hindu Kush mountains, the bright red poppy fields of Iran, the miles of sand-covered South Sudan, and the rainforests of the Congo. I saw swarms of millions of lake flies that looked like walls of smoke, rivers changing course, ate exotic foods, and learned not only about many other cultures but also a lot about myself.
The money was good, but I was now a captain in a serious relationship, and I spent two months away from home at a time, as did my boyfriend. We had to rely on Skype and hope our one month home coincided. I needed a more normal life. Regional airlines paid really poorly compared to our contract work, and we had bought a house, so we couldn’t really afford the lesser pay. So, I did freelance charter work, which meant I had no roster and was called out at a moment’s notice for undefined times, which often changed as the needs of the passengers changed. I would stay in five-star hotels one night and in a container on a dusty mine the next. I couldn’t sustain this for long while thinking about starting a family.
I finally got what I thought was the holy grail of jobs—on a medium-range single-aisle jet with a planned roster. But my happiness was short-lived. As a married mum with a beautiful daughter, the challenge of a two-pilot household became apparent. I now finally understood my mum. It wasn’t my abilities or my gender she was questioning, but she was asking if the world had evolved enough to allow a woman to have both a career and a family without having to sacrifice one for the other.
Would I do it all over again? My single, 18-year-old self at the start of a new century would say definitely. The experience made me grow, and I was living the dream—my optimism and hope would still see the shiny side. However, my 40-year-old married self, with a family, hopes my daughter will finally live in a world where she won’t have to choose between career and family.