Stansted Airport—if purgatory had a budget terminal, this would be it. For four years now, I’ve haunted this place like some budget traveller’s ghost, dragging my mismatched luggage through its endless grey corridors, mainly Glasgow-bound. Birthdays, business trips, pleasure, pain—and just one funeral. Now it’s Christmas and New Year. Or, for those who prefer it broader, “holiday season.” Let’s not pretend it’s all magic and cheer—it’s more like festive chaos wrapped in tinsel, fuelled by too much Prosecco and awkward family questions.
This trip home means one thing: steak pie. Forget roast turkeys and fancy puddings—steak pie is Glasgow’s real tradition. Christmas might be about the presents, but New Year? That’s when the steak pie takes centre stage. My mum will have it waiting, of course, and she’ll be keeping a close eye on my plate. Somehow, even after losing four stone—or about 25 kilograms in new money—she still thinks I’m overweight. “You looked healthier before,” she’ll say, while sneakily slipping another helping onto my plate. Glaswegian mums have a special talent for guilt-laced affection, and mine wields it like an Olympic sport. But who am I kidding? I’ll eat the steak pie, argue about the portion size, and secretly love every minute of it.
Going home for Christmas and New Year is a cocktail of comfort and mild panic. The comfort comes from the familiar smells of the family home, the daft traditions, and the kind of banter you only get when surrounded by your own people. The mild panic? That’s the annual interrogation: “How’s work going?” “Are you seeing anyone yet?” “What’s your plan for next year?” It’s like being dragged into a surprise job interview, except the panel’s armed with haggis pakora and a lifetime of knowing exactly how to push your buttons. You’d think I was running for political office, not trying to figure out if I’ve got time to nip to Tesco for last-minute shortbread before the family quiz starts.
Stansted is, as always, the great leveller. It doesn’t care about my festive plans or the existential dread of returning to family life. It’s just a holding pen for tired travellers, overpriced coffee, and the occasional toddler going feral at Gate 81. But that’s what makes it the perfect place for reflection. Forget the mirror in your bathroom, the one that shows you the greys creeping in or reminds you that your jacket from 2010 is now less “tailored” and more “tight fit.” The real mirror is here, in the waiting, in the in-between spaces. Are you happy? Are your relationships thriving, or are they limping along on autopilot? When was the last time you felt genuinely excited about life—or even just optimistic about it? And no, the Pret Christmas sandwich doesn’t count, no matter how good the stuffing was.
I’ve done this flight as the banker, striding through in a suit sharp enough to cut paper, clutching a phone full of emails and a head full of ambition. I’ve done it as the coach, with a laptop bag packed with ideas, questions, and the occasional mini-meltdown. I’ve done it single, replaying breakups in my head like they were tragic indie films, wondering if I was the problem—or if they were. And I’ve done it in a relationship, quietly unravelling while pretending everything was fine. Stansted doesn’t care about any of that. To the departure board, I’m just another name, another delayed flight, another statistic in its endless churn.
But Glasgow is always waiting. After twelve years down south, it’s still home. Essex and London might have softened my accent and hardened my perspective, but Glasgow? Glasgow shaped me. It’s the frayed jumper I’ll never throw away—worn, a little snug, but undeniably mine. Every landing feels like reconnecting with a version of myself I nearly forgot. The rain, the grit, the unapologetic honesty of the place—it’s like stepping back into reality after a long, hazy dream.
And that’s the thing about Christmas and New Year—it’s not just about celebration. It’s about reflection. Birthdays, funerals, and flights home all demand a bit of introspection, but something about the holiday season makes it unavoidable. What’s gone right this year? What’s gone wrong? What’s worth holding onto, and what’s best left behind? Like my brief flirtation with growing a fringe in 2003, some things just need to be left in the past.
That’s the kind of reflection I’ve come to embrace—not just for myself, but for others. I’m not here to sugar-coat things or sell you some polished Instagram fantasy. Life’s messy, and sometimes you need someone to wade through it with you, ask the hard questions, and help you figure out what comes next. If you’re tired of pretending everything’s fine and ready to take the first step, I’m here.
Try my free career quiz: https://nextstepscareerquiz.scoreapp.com. Or book a free session with me at www.sonbehindtheclouds.co.uk. Life’s too short to keep running in circles—or to let steak pie and haggis pakora be the most exciting things on your horizon.
Stansted has taught me one thing: the journey isn’t just about where you’re going—it’s about who you’re becoming along the way. So here I sit, waiting for yet another Glasgow-bound flight, wondering what this year will bring. Maybe I’ll finally figure it out. Or maybe I’ll just eat the steak pie, grab a haggis pakora, and call it a win. Either way, Glasgow—and my parents —are waiting.
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