Illustration by Alex Deadman-Wylie
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For 10 years, I measured my life in altitudes and time zones as an international flight attendant for Ukraine International Airlines. Most of my routes were across Europe, but my favourites were the long-haul journeys to North America. When I graduated from Dnipro National University with a degree in international journalism, I fell to a career wrapped in romance and adventure. Coming from a small town in Ukraine, securing a cabin crew position with the national carrier felt like an monumental achievement – a literal and metaphorical launchpad into the wider world.
The airplane cabin became my home, and the world below served as an ever-shifting, kaleidoscopic backdrop. I was a professional nomad living out of a suitcase, managing chaos at 35,000 feet and learning to read the unspoken anxieties of complete strangers. On any given day, I might be administering first aid to a passenger in medical distress, managing a row of rowdy flyers or co-ordinating with security to escort an angry, deported passenger. On top of that lay the emergencies such as sudden cabin decompressions where you are forced to suppress your own terror to anchor everyone else’s safety. I was constantly fuelled by adrenalin and the raw energy of perpetual movement.
Then, on Feb. 24, 2022, my world came to a sudden halt when Russia invaded Ukraine. Everything shattered at 4 a.m. when my husband, our son and I woke up to the terrifying thunder of explosions shaking Kyiv.
We chose to flee to Canada to start our lives from scratch. Coming from a bustling European capital, we assumed we needed a major Canadian city for employment. But Canadian volunteers unexpectedly matched us with a wonderful host family in St. Marys, a small town in Southwestern Ontario famous for its historic limestone architecture and quiet pace. We didn’t choose this town; this town chose us, and we accepted the embrace.
Trading a non-stop life of global aviation for a community of 7,000 people was a profound psychological shock. For the first few months, the stillness of the countryside felt deafening. There were no longer the high-stakes, noisy preflight briefings where our crew loudly ran through emergency drill procedures to stay sharp. There was no chaotic rush through international terminals. Instead, I found quiet farmer’s markets, gentle trails to stroll along the Thames River that wind through the trees.
As a flight attendant, I was trained to be a master of transition. I met hundreds of people a day, cared for them during a flight and then walked away from their lives forever. It was an industry of intense but fleeting connections.
In my new Canadian home, I quickly realized that human connection operates on a completely different timeline. The person you pass on the sidewalk today is the exact same person you will stand next to at the grocery store tomorrow. Relationships here are not built in a fast-paced, single shift. They are cultivated slowly, much like the made from scratch sourdough loaves I began baking in my kitchen.
As the months turned into years, a quiet transformation took place inside me. The core skills I developed in the air – empathy, observation and the ability to find tranquillity in unfamiliar environments – were the precise tools I needed to build a life on the ground.
Remembering my roots in journalism, I decided to pick up my pen again. I reached out to our local newspaper, and for over a year now, I have been writing a weekly column. I rely on the same observational muscle I used in the aircraft cabin but now I capture the peaceful, grounding moments of small-town life and the moments that connect us all.
The biggest difference now is that these reflections don’t disappear at the baggage claim. Today, I work as a receptionist at a local insurance office, and I smile like a child every time my readers wave to me through the front office window. Neighbours regularly stop me on the street just to say, “Alona, your last article was so funny, keep it up!”
Sometimes, when I look up and see thin white contrails cutting through the blue sky, a wave of nostalgia hits me. I still miss the pure thrill of takeoff and the quiet magic of watching the sun rise over the Atlantic Ocean from the galley. But then I look around my quiet street, at the deep roots my family is planting here and I smile.
I used to believe that flying was the ultimate expression of freedom. But it turns out that learning your neighbours’ names and finding your true voice in a small town is the greatest journey of all. It has finally brought me back down to Earth.
Alona Vasylieva lives in St. Marys, Ont.