How do Cabin Crew prepare for flying over the Christmas period?!

The Diary of a Cabin Crew Member

6th January 2026

Did you have a good Christmas? I truly hope that you did, and that you’re planning great and glorious things for the year ahead! I had a lovely time myself, a day full of family, food, and the usual festive chaos. But I can’t help admitting that I’m also a tiny bit relieved it’s all over.

That I feel the same way around this time most years, in fact, and I’ve started to wonder whether that feeling has less to do with the day itself and everything to do with the fact that I fly… and the sheer stress that one single roster manages to put on our entire flying family from the moment we submit our December bids.

It is, without exaggeration, two full months of tension, mince pies, and emotional turbulence. By the end of it I was wrung out like an old dishcloth and hitting the gin on a nightly basis. And not just the gin. Oh no, I worked my way through the Baileys, the Disaronno, the prosecco… honestly, if it had a cap I could twist off or a cork I could pop, I was drinking it. Anything to dull the edge of the whole darned ordeal.

The truth is, I barely remember a life before flying. It’s like a blank patch of static between adolescence and joining the airlines. I’m sure those years were enjoyable ones, but seeing as I’ve been living this bonkers lifestyle for over twenty years now, running endlessly on the aviation hamster wheel and living from roster to roster, I simply can’t remember much of it. In this life, I never know what day of the week it is, where my next hot meal will come from, or which country I’ll be eating it in… and I must admit I give little thought to before or indeed after each flight. But one thing I do remember from before, is that Christmas, back then, was simply ‘done.’ No strategy. No negotiations. And no bidding wars. I spent the day with my siblings buried in wrapping paper, overindulging on mum’s turkey dinner. Gran always got drunk on the sherry, and grandad, despite all his grand promises, never made it past the first line of the Queen’s speech before falling asleep. It was magical. It was exactly like the television adverts. And there was never any chance I would miss it. Until I became crew… and suddenly nothing was guaranteed ever again.

For us, securing Christmas is like entering the Hunger Games wearing festive jumpers. It all begins way back in spring when we can bid for annual leave. A blessed few get the golden ticket and can leave the gamee early, but the rest of us? We get random days off in October or weekdays in November that are about as useful as a chocolate teapot. We sulk, we accept it, and we tell ourselves the game isn’t over. Because it isn’t, yet.

Then October rolls around. For my airline, that is when it really begins. It’s the month mum and dad start asking about your Christmas plans, the month the tubs of Quality Street appear in the shops, the month the children start vibrating with sugar-fuelled excitement. And for us, it’s the month we place our December bids.

We study the trip list. We interpret company offers like cryptic prophecies. And we scheme. Some of us think, ‘If I bid for Delhi on the 22nd, maybe I’ll land the 25th and 26th off.’ But then panic sets in because what if everyone has had exactly the same tactical genius at the same moment and we get outbid and end up with standby on Christmas eve? Some go for the direct approach and simply ask for the days. Others think, ‘Sod it, I don’t even like Christmas,’ and shoot their shot for a three-night Maldives layover, with visions of sipping cocktails on the beach while everyone else is eating overcooked carrots.

Whatever tactic we choose, we hit the submit button and we go back to pretending to live our normal lives, saying a silent prayer inside while we wait out the next few weeks.

And then comes Roster Day.

That sacred, dreaded, anxiety-inducing day when December rosters get published. When the scheduling team push the button... and run to their bunkers for shelter before the back lash begins, knowing they have ruined whole family’s plans because they were unable to grant everyone’s wishes. It’s the day when phones all over the world are refreshed approximately every three seconds. When wine is poured in industrial quantities, purely as a sedative and social media turns into a panic room.

And then it crash lands into your life. Your heart thumps. Your hand shakes. You mentally prepare for the best, the worst, and the truly horrifying prospect of standby, as you open your line to find that one number that matters.

The 25th.

And whatever is next to it.

Days off…

I got days off! I got days off! I poured myself another glass of wine and celebrated like I’d just won the lottery. And then, after a short lived euphoria, I looked at the rest of my roster and stopped mid-sip.

India.

Standby.

Nigeria

Where, precisely, was I meant to do my Christmas shopping? Where was I supposed to buy candles and stocking fillers? And Bob’s Christmas party - I was working that weekend, and every other weekend too. Yes, I had Christmas Day off, but what would be left of my Christmas spirit by then?

My poor, spoiled, flight attendant soul was crushed, and I joined the hundreds of crew begging for swaps, visions of the children’s faces Christmas morning when they opened their stockings to find some Masala tea and a tub of Jollof rice inside.

And so began December.

Swapping trips like a Wall Street trader with questionable habits, until finally - finally - I built myself an acceptable festive roster. A New York shopping trip, a Caribbean layover for the tan, and I kept the India because I needed a pedicure and a new set of nails.

I shopped.

I wrapped.

I attended the kids’ nativities in uniform before dashing up the motorway to make my flight.

I made it to Bob’s Christmas party straight from New York on no sleep and was sozzled on two glasses of fizz.

I cooked for eight on Christmas and hosted 15 for Boxing Day leftovers.

These days it’s mum who gets drunk on the sherry and dad who snores through the King’s speech, but I love that my kids will remember their grandparents in the same way that I remember mine. And I loved that we got to all be together for another year.

Word on the crew grapevine was that Christmas flying descended into chaos, that sickness levels were through the roof and everyone on standby was called in. But no surprises there. We are just numbers, after all. And if you had to choose between showing up for a crew-down flight and an economy turkey dinner, and spending the day with your children… well, let’s just say I’m grateful I didn’t have to make that call this year, and I’ll leave it at that.

I ended the season with a lovely New Year’s trip to Dubai. I took Bob with me as a reward for buying me the diamond earrings I had absolutely not hinted about for the previous three months. We toasted the New Year in with champagne, and I felt genuinely grateful that while I’d loved it all, the whole circus was over.

And on New Year’s Day, as I woke up in Dubai slightly fragile and unsure what year it was, I realised I didn’t actually care what this month’s roster held. It didn’t matter the way December’s did. Not even close. And sometimes I wonder whether life would be calmer if I joined the 9-to-5 world. If I floated into Christmas like normal people, instead of being catapulted into it from 35,000 feet.

Maybe it would be nice.

But then again… maybe it would be boring.

So here is to 2026.

To rosters full of beaches, sunsets, half-empty flights, and a miraculous pay rise. We can dream, after all. And here’s to May, when I get to do it all again, armed with one more year of seniority and false confidence that this might be the year I secure Christmas leave and skip the whole rollercoaster entirely.

Wherever you were, I hope you found your sparkle and made the most of whatever the roster gods handed you. And I wish for you all a happy, and more importantly, a healthy 2026.

Much love,

Susan