Bright Spot in the Logbook

After a couple of months in my hiatus to focus on flying and staying current with my pilot duties, there’s a little thing I want to share.

Every so often, someone in aviation says something that stays with me far longer than they might expect. Recently, a senior training captain of a famous airline asked me:

“Why don’t you continue your passion — make it your career?”

I’ve heard similar words before, including from heads of training and professional pilots at renowned international airlines. Each time, it feels like a quiet stamp in my logbook: yes, you could.

I don’t plan to pursue the airline path. I’m nearly 50. I don’t want the 3:30am alarms, the first flights of the day, or the lifestyle that comes with them. My energy is finite, and my focus has to be chosen carefully.

But the recognition matters. My flight license isn’t just a casual weekend hobby — my training was delivered with the same rigour and precision as commercial airline pilot programmes. Structured checks, demanding standards, and the kind of feedback that makes you sharper. One experience in particular has stayed with me.

One year ago, when I was going through one of the hardest periods of my life, I asked an A320 instructor to push me until I broke in the full-flight simulator. I wanted to know, in my bones, whether I could still function under pressure when part of me felt like it was falling apart.

It began with a departure from Innsbruck (LOWI) runway 26 — the mountain-side route, the most difficult one — with no flight director, no autopilot, and no autothrottle. Then, an engine failed during the initial climb. Then hydraulic failure on one side. Then generator failure on the same side. And finally, as if that wasn’t enough, the first officer (also an instructor) attempted to shut down the wrong engine, just to see if I’d catch it.

It was relentless. But I flew the plane.

And in that simulated cockpit, I found something real: even when major systems are gone, even when you’re operating with what feels like a fraction of your capacity, you can still function. You can still bring the aircraft — and yourself — home safely.

In those professional training environments, I’ve been welcomed — fully, as myself. Even in an industry that doesn’t always make diversity easy, I’ve felt I belonged there. And I’m deeply gratful to those who made me feel like that.

Flying clubs can be lovely in their own way, but there’s a unique sense of earned belonging that comes when you train to a professional standard. It’s not about the size of the aircraft; it’s about the quality of the sky you share.

I may never fly a jet for a living, but I’ll always carry those words from people who train the very best. A part of me belongs in their logbooks, too.

Sometimes, a single question from the right person stays with you for years. Recently, a senior training captain asked me:

“Why don’t you continue your passion — make it your career?”

It’s not a path I’ll take — but the recognition means more than they might realise.

I’m deeply grateful to the A320 instructors who, years ago, gave me one of the most valuable lessons of my life — not just in aviation. At a time when I was struggling and doubting myself, I asked to be pushed to the limit in the simulator.

Here’s why.