The Invisible Threat

That was my mantra throughout my command upgrade course over a decade ago.

I’d waited years for the opportunity. Studied harder than I had since my ATPL days. I knew the tech inside out.

What I didn’t know was what was happening inside my own head.

The command course coincided with what my wife now calls “those years.”

We were moving house – stressful.

Had one child under two and another on the way – stressful.

My mother was diagnosed with cancer – very stressful.

And to top it off, the airline decided it was time for me to upgrade to captain - STRESSFUL!

As the old saying goes,

Looking back, I should have seen the signs.

My second son was born premature at just 26 weeks during this period. If that’s not a stress indicator, I don’t know what is.

But I was fine!

Tired? Sure.

A bit distracted? Maybe.

Stressed? Nah.

I didn’t feel stressed. I felt like a pilot with a lot on his plate who needed to compartmentalise and crack on. Classic pilot thinking.

The first warning signs were subtle. I missed a couple of radio calls—nothing major, the kind you’d put down to a busy frequency. My briefings turned mechanical. My scan slowed. My decision-making took that fraction longer.

But still, I pushed on. It’s fine. I’ve got this.

I was nearing the end of the course.

Things were okay, but I wasn’t exactly lighting the place up with confidence. My performance was textbook in places, but mechanical. I wasn’t present.

Then came the check ride. Two short sectors between me and that fourth gold bar.

Long story short—I failed. And for good reason. It wasn’t a good day, and my poor performance showed.

I was crushed. I’d never failed a check in my career. It felt alien. Devastating.

And still, I pushed on. Dusted myself off and got back in the sim.

Classic pilot move: if at first you don’t succeed, double down with determination. Ignore the warning signs. Press-on-itis in full effect.

Thankfully, one of the trainers saw it for what it was.

“Simon, this isn’t about skill or knowledge” They said. “You know this aircraft”.

That question hit like a bucket of cold water. Someone had finally named what I couldn’t.

That evening, I spoke to my wife. I laid it out—the weight of everything, the pressure I’d buried, how hard it had become to function.

The next day, I called the training department and asked for time off.

I expected resistance; I got the opposite.

"No problem. Come back when you’re ready. And here’s an appointment with a specialist."

Oh... right... I guess this is serious then.

What I thought would be a three-day reset turned into three weeks, then three months, and finally a few extra months on top of that for good measure.

My GP diagnosed depression, triggered by prolonged, unacknowledged stress.

I lost my flying medical.

In pilot terms, this wasn’t a slow decompression—it was a full-blown emergency descent 🤯

For someone whose identity was tied to being competent, capable and safe—it hit hard.

But it also gave me what I actually needed: space to get help.

Hang on… this is all getting a bit serious - Check out this flight from April 1st! Something seems a little off.

With support from my AME, a psychologist who specialised in high-performance professions, and no small amount of patience from my family, I gradually rebuilt.

And with the final ok from the authority I got my medical back and soon, found myself back in the simulator.

A few months later, I completed the command course.

Safe, commercial, pragmatic.

(That’s all they’re really looking for, by the way.)

And more importantly—I was enjoying it again 🤗

Looking back now, what strikes me most is how obvious it all seems in hindsight.

The signs were there—they just didn’t match what I thought stress looked like.

I didn’t feel panicked or anxious. I felt numb. Detached. Like I was watching myself go through the motions.

I’ve since learned that’s called cognitive distancing—a classic symptom of burnout. But I’d never have labelled it as “stress.”

Because someone reading this might be thinking, “It’s fine. I’ve got this.”

And maybe you do. But maybe—just maybe—your colleagues can see what you can’t.

This isn’t just about command upgrades. You could be working on a type rating, completing line training, or juggling home life with a tough job.

Stress doesn’t discriminate by stripes or seniority. I’ve seen FOs three months into training and 15,000-hour captains both hit the same wall.

And if you’re in your twenties thinking, “That won’t happen to me”—I get it. I felt the same way. There’s a kind of quiet immortality that comes with being that age and earning your seat in the flight deck.

Catching stress early doesn’t just protect your wellbeing. It protects your performance—your scan, your judgement, your decision-making. The very things we train to safeguard every flight.

But stress doesn’t come with an ECAM warning. No amber lights. No aural alert. Just a gradual, silent erosion of your mental capacity.

A drifting parameter might be your only clue, so you best keep an eye out.

Next week, we’ll look at what stress does to pilot performance—and how to manage it in the real world.

But for now, remember: Asking for help is a strength, not a weakness.

So keep a good eye on yourself and also your colleagues.

If you’d like to find out how stressed you might be check out this link to a free impartial test - Holmes Rahe Stress Inventory

See you next week.

Simon

Bus Juice

P.S. I know that in some parts of the world, admitting you're struggling can feel like putting a red line through your medical and your career. I was lucky—in the UK, I had nothing but support. Wherever you are, whoever your authority is: if you're struggling, please speak up and get help.