Turning Right: The Flight That Taught Me About Leadership and Humility

I grew up in an aviation family. My dad was a Qantas captain - ex-Air Force - and in the 80s and 90s, that meant one thing: access to the world. And not just any access - first-class, silver-spoon, hot-towel access. It was a golden era of flying, and we lived right in the middle of it.

My childhood was stitched together with the hum of jet engines and the clink of cutlery at 35,000 feet. I knew what it meant to be escorted through the terminal, to board early, to be greeted by name. It was, in hindsight, a level of privilege I couldn’t have possibly understood at eight years old.

My mum, though, remembers one particular moment that still makes her shudder - and makes me laugh, uncomfortably.

We were boarding a flight for a family holiday. As we stepped through the aircraft door, I turned left without hesitation - straight toward the first-class cabin. That’s where I belonged, after all. That’s where I’d always sat.

But not that day.

My mum caught my arm mid-turn. “No, sweetheart,” she said, nodding toward the right. “We’re sitting down there today.”

I looked, frowning, down the narrow aisle lined with rows upon rows of seats, people, and noise. And then, in a moment that would go down in family history, I said - loudly and without irony - “Do I have to sit down there with those people?”

Six years old, and already a walking case study in entitlement.

That flight became my first real lesson in humility, though it would take decades for me to truly appreciate it. I remember feeling uncomfortable - squashed into a smaller seat, noticing the chatter, the closeness, the absence of all the quiet luxury I’d known before. The food came in foil containers. The napkins were paper. I was outraged.

But looking back, it was one of the most important journeys of my life - not because of the destination, but because of what I learned somewhere over the Pacific: that comfort can cloud perspective, and privilege can shrink empathy if you let it. (Clearly I didn’t learn how to verbalise that until later in life).

Fast forward twenty-odd years, and I’ve been firmly in the economy cabin ever since. And rarely at that. Family trips overseas are few and far between these days - because, frankly, who can afford them? Between work, school fees, and the rising cost of simply existing, travel has become an occasional privilege, not a regular routine.

But something unexpected happened in that shift. I began to appreciate the experience differently.

Now, when I board a plane, I still turn right - but I do it with a quiet smile. I’ve learned to find joy in the small things: the hum of anticipation as passengers settle in, the random conversation with the stranger beside you, the excitement of heading somewhere new. Even when I end up in that infamous middle seat next to the man who seems to think half my seat belongs to him for the next fourteen hours, I still feel grateful. Because I’m going somewhere. And that in itself feels like a privilege.

Perspective has a way of sharpening gratitude. And gratitude, I’ve learned, sits at the very heart of leadership.

Leadership isn’t about the view from the front - it’s about the awareness you hold wherever you’re sitting. It’s about recognising that every person around you has a story, a reason for being there, a destination of their own. It’s about knowing when to stop turning left, and instead walk the aisle with humility, curiosity, and respect.

The best leaders don’t operate from the comfort of the first-class cabin. They lead from among their people - where it’s noisier, closer, and undeniably real. They understand discomfort. They share in the turbulence. They listen to the conversations that happen in the back rows.

Every time I travel now, I think of my mum’s gentle words from that day: “We’re sitting down there today.”

At the time, it was a correction. Now, I see it as wisdom.

Because real leadership isn’t about moving toward the space that feels most comfortable - it’s about moving toward connection. It’s about staying grounded, even when you’re 35,000 feet in the air. It’s about remembering that your worth isn’t measured by your seat number, but by your awareness of the people sitting beside you.

So yes, these days I turn right - and I do it proudly. Because that small, humbling turn has shaped not just how I travel, but how I lead, how I parent, and how I walk through the world.

We all take off together. We all hit turbulence together. And we all land together. The difference lies in how we treat one another along the way.