Ahhh, success.

That slippery, deeply personal measure of human satisfaction that somehow manages to look different on everyone.

I think sometimes success doesn’t arrive with fireworks or fanfare. Sometimes it shows up quietly, disguised as survival, resilience, or simply getting through another day. And if we can learn to spot it - especially when it doesn’t look the way we expected - it can fuel us to keep going.

I’ve had success many times in my life, though it hasn’t always worn the same uniform.

Before March 2020, success for me looked like a high-vis vest and long days on the Brisbane RAMP. For 16 years, I worked airside at an international airport - right next to jumbo aircraft, every single day. I drove aerobridges, opened aircraft doors, and docked widebodies onto blocks like it was second nature. I witnessed the occasional drug smuggler concealing things they definitely shouldn’t have, helped manage prisoners in custody, and worked alongside “Make A Wish” kids whose biggest dream was simply to sit in a cockpit.

There were medical emergencies mid-turnaround. There were delays, chaos, pressure, and responsibility. The airside antics of an international airport were hectic, unpredictable, and alive. And I loved it.

I was 38 years old and genuinely felt like the most successful person on the planet—not because of status or money, but because I was happy. I was part of something fast-paced and meaningful. I knew my role. I was good at it. I belonged.

Then Covid hit.

Almost overnight, that version of success disappeared.

Suddenly, I was jobless. My skill set - so specialised and once so valuable - felt completely irrelevant. I knew how to dock an A330 and argue with load control, but none of that translated easily into a world that had slammed shut.

Money became painfully tight. Success was no longer about thriving; it was about surviving.

Success was learning how to live within an unbearably limited family budget.

Success was holding it together emotionally for my young children when I felt anything but together myself.

Success was finding other work - any work - even if it paid less than half of what I had earned before.

I swapped my high-vis vest for basic scrubs. My earphones for gloves. My radio for a mobile phone.

I started again as a homecare professional.

On the surface, it felt like a world away from the airport. No jumbo jets. No tarmac. No roar of engines or flashing beacons. But the more time I spent caring for people in their own homes, the more familiar it felt.

I already knew how to stay calm in unpredictable situations. I had first aid training. I understood pressure, responsibility, and the quiet weight of being the person someone relies on when things go wrong. Instead of managing turnarounds and tight schedules, I was helping someone shower safely, preparing meals, or simply sitting with them so they weren’t alone.

The uniform was different, but the core of the job wasn’t.

Once again, success wasn’t measured in pay packets or prestige. It was measured in trust. In showing up. In making someone’s day just a little easier. In knowing that even though my world had shrunk, my purpose hadn’t disappeared - it had just changed shape.

At the time, I didn’t recognise this as success. I saw it as temporary. As necessary. As a step backward. But now I understand it was another redefinition - another reminder that success doesn’t always look like progress from the outside.

Success showed up again.

This time, it didn’t look like stability or certainty. It looked like adaptability. And to my own surprise, I realised I was actually good at it.

Sometimes it looks like service.

Sometimes it looks like humility.

Sometimes it looks like starting over with skills you didn’t even realise were transferable.

My definition of success shrank dramatically. And yet, in hindsight, it also became clearer.

Where I’m going with all of this is simple: sometimes we all need to redefine success.

Lately, I’ve looked back on those moments and wondered what I would have thought if I’d known what the future held. If someone had told me back then that six years later I would be an award-winning writer, working in publishing, managing an online magazine, moderating lounges for Stage 32, and collaborating with a U.S. producer - I would have assumed they’d raided the suitcase of one of those smugglers I used to deal with.

There is absolutely no way I thought any of this was possible.

I often have to remind myself that just because I didn’t “fly home in a chopper,” it doesn’t mean I’m not already successful.

This March marks six years since I made a quiet but life-altering choice: instead of falling apart, I chose to tell stories that filled my cup. At the time, it didn’t feel like a career decision. It felt like survival. But that choice became the foundation for the career I have today.

And along the way, my expectations of success have shifted - dramatically.

I genuinely believe I’m highly successful now.

Not because of contracts or titles, but because of connection. I’ve built an incredible network, and more importantly, I learn from that network every single day. And that network lives and breathes right here on this platform.

Success is having someone reach out to me with publishing questions because they trust my experience.

Success is having a reputation rooted in honesty and reliability.

Success is being able to ask questions openly in any lounge without fear of judgment.

Success is people taking the time to respond.

Success is Stage 32 members standing in my corner and reassuring me that I’m on the right track.

Success is being given the space to publish blog pieces and share what I’ve learned along the way.

Sure - I don’t have option agreements, representation, or major executives circling my work. But I still believe I’m successful.

Because there was a time when I felt completely worthless. A time when I couldn’t see a way forward. And in that moment, I found this platform. I found community. I found purpose. And I learned that success doesn’t have one fixed shape.

It evolves. It adapts. And sometimes, it simply means you’re still standing - and still creating.

And for me, that’s more than enough.

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