We weren’t aspiring crew. We were passengers.

The room felt less like a recruitment event and more like a departure gate during a delay — restless bodies all elbowing for early boarding. And the recruiters moved through the crowd with the same elegant detachment as cabin crew dealing with a flight full of entitled business-class upgrades: swift, polite, professionally disinterested.

Smile, nod, next.

So I stopped watching the hopefuls and started watching them — the real crew. The ones holding the boarding passes to our futures.

What made them perk up. What made them tune out. I looked for the tiny cues: a flicker of a wince, a smile that didn’t quite reach the eyes. A smile so sharp, it slashed a name off the roster.

Not that we had names.

We didn’t even have numbers.

And it dawned on me — the anonymity went both ways.

I’d been operating under the grand illusion that this was all about me.

I’d spent so long thinking about my answers, my backstory, my bloody outfit — that I’d never once considered the people behind the clipboard. I hadn’t asked what they might need, or how they make a decision.

Had I asked a question that day, it probably would have been, Um, wait, who are Emirates?

Yeah, I’d never even heard of them before this open day.

I was failing because I was selfish and delusional

The silly rules I’d followed began to collapse under its own nonsense.

I wasn’t wearing that awful blue scarf this time. No, no. I’d upgraded my delusion. I’d dressed like I already worked there alright.

I’d done it all, all the way down to the cream parchment resume with red headings. I was one sewing needle away from embroidering an Emirates cartouche onto my interview lapel.

Suddenly, all the rules and advice I’d followed seemed ridiculous, and I felt ridiculous.

This wasn’t authenticity. This was impersonation.

I was trying so hard to be someone else, there was no space left for me.

If I didn’t walk out now, I’d be escorted out — by legal with a cease and desist stapled to my rejection slip.

Whilst applicants queued for the CV handover, I slipped out the exit.

I succeeded whilst wearing my school shirt

It took me two years before I went back for that twentieth interview.

And when I did, I tried the one thing I’d never dared before: I came as someone no one else could imitate. Myself.

No red lipstick. Hair long and loose, trailing past my waist.

And I wore my old high school shirt. Yes, really. Powder blue, with collars so wide they looked like they could generate lift. And those ridiculous collars made me smile — Not that brittle, compliance-coded Pan Am smile I’d been straining to perfect for years. One that came from knowing who I was.

It didn’t transform me. It restored me.

But there was something else too. Something more significant than clothing.

I didn’t memorise answers. I strategised.

I pre-empted my introversion. Built an opening move that would earn me a name before the chaos began.

I crosschecked every so-called rule.

That is to say, I’d stopped thinking like an applicant and started thinking like crew.

And that’s the me who made it through all nine rounds and got The Golden Call.

Rejection was a symptom of my failure to prepare and quitting was the best thing I could have done.

But this story? It’s not just mine.

If you’re standing where I once stood. Exhausted. Frustrated. Wondering why you’re doing everything “right” and still going nowhere.

If you’ve polished your shoes, memorised your answers, worn the bloody scarf and still heard no…

In the next post, I’ll show you exactly how to stop thinking like an applicant — and start succeeding like crew.