Afraid of flying? I took British Airways’ Flying with Confidence course, and here’s how it helped me overcome takeoff anxiety, turbulence panic, and in-flight nerves.

Disclaimer: British Airways did not pay me, sponsor this review or bribe me with tiny pretzels and peanuts. I paid full price for this course, and all opinions and occasional panic are 100% mine.

I never in a million years thought I’d be sitting in a window seat, on “a flight to nowhere,” listening to a pilot calmly instruct us to squeeze our butts over the intercom. Yet, here I was, circling Heathrow on a faux-flight, surrounded by a cabin of strangers clenching in an awkward synchrony…

For the 1 in 6 of us who fear flying the real question isn’t whether you prefer take-off or landing, but: “how will I survive this?” and apparently survival starts with your glutes.

The fear of flying starts the moment you book — the creeping dread as you shuffle through security, the way your body locks at that first ‘bing bong’ of the seatbelt sign. I know. I used to resign myself to meeting a tumbling death in the first ten seconds of turbulence. 

So when British Airways’ Flying with Confidence course crossed my desk at work, I volunteered to be a personal guinea pig for a “life changing” experience aimed at curing your fear of flying.

Cabin Pressure

Some of my first memories are of my sister and me flying internationally — alone — for the first time at the very chill ages of five and twelve. No parents travelling with us (that’s us, with my mum waving us off below). Just two kids clutching passports and a Ziploc full of Graham crackers and emergency phone numbers, passed between parents in Dublin and Toronto like postcards.

You’d think logging that many solo air miles before hitting puberty would’ve hardened me into some kind of mini frequent flyer ninja? Nope. Later in life, I would learn that I’m actually autistic, and my fear stems from an overwhelming sensory soup of noise, smells, chaos, and strangers far too close for comfort. Even back then, I spent most flights silently white-knuckling my seatbelt, trying not to cry. 

Who knows, maybe it’s also because I’m a millennial who grew up with Final Destination engrained in my mind — the same reason I still get nervous driving behind a semi-truck stacked with logs. Did my entire generation just get permanently wired to assume the worst? That we’re about to meet our maker in some elaborate Rube Goldberg sequence?

Regardless of where it stems from, fear never overrode my itchy feet. If there was one constant in my chaotic, carry-on-sized life, it was travel—and there was no way in hell I was letting panic rob me of the one thing that made sense: the freedom to take off and see the world. Flying above the clouds, up there everything seems possible and impossible at the same time, and it’s a feeling I wish I could bottle. 

Until one fateful trip to Scotland. 

Two years ago, what should’ve been a simple hop from Cork to Edinburgh with my dad ended up being the worst flight of my life. 

The turbulence started off wobbly but manageable. But then came the landing — or rather, the attempted landing, which turned into a sudden, stomach-dropping lurch back into the sky. We were being flung around like popcorn in a microwave, and I was 100% sure this was how it ended.

The second landing attempt? Also a no-go, and that’s when the cabin descended into pure chaos. People were shrieking. Hands reached out between seats like some midair séance. More than a few passengers curled into the fetal position by the window, while my dad and I just clung to each other in silent, mutual terror.

This was it, I thought. I had a good run, and at least I’m going out with my dad beside me. I shed a single tear and focused all my energy on not vomiting on the poor elderly woman next to me.

When we finally hit the tarmac at rocket speed, the cabin went dead silent. No one clapped. No one cheered. We all just sat there, stunned. No flight attendant dared to chirp a cheery “thanks for flying with us”. 

Upon exiting the aircraft, the panic engulfed me, and I broke down right there on the bus between terminals.

After that, flying got worse. Not just a little worse. But, like, meltdown-at-the-gate worse. And still, I kept travelling, because I didn’t want to stop seeing the world. But it was becoming clear something had to change.

So fast-forward to today, and I’m signed up to Flying with Confidence’s course, knowing I’d soon be taking to the skies imminently.

I was skeptical. How could just 1 day crammed into a Heathrow conference room and a 20-minute flight to nowhere rewire my nervous system? And was it really worth the hefty £399.00 price tag? 

Well, it turns out it did. So, yes.

Flight School: Turbulence, Sounds, and Control

Mainly held in Heathrow and Gatwick, the course is piloted by, well, pilots (and psychologists, too). There are a few flavours to choose from—Primary, Premium, Premium Plus, or Private—depending on your budget and nerves. I signed up for the primary course, which meant a day of technical and psychological sessions with about 100 fellow nervous flyers. Perks? Unlimited tea, coffee, snacks, and lunch.

The day is broken into 3 parts, and honestly, it felt a little like flight school lite.

The morning kicked off with some breathing exercises, which would be the foundation for controlling anxiety throughout the day. 

The technique is called “Breathe & Squeeze,” basically a combo of deep breathing and contracting your glutes, aiming to slow your heart rate and muscle tension.

Next, pilots Nigel and Niven gave a presentation that broke down all aspects of aviation. From Ailerons and roll, to rudder and yaw, lift and drag. Personally, I found this the most helpful part of the course. I’m usually not one to grasp concepts to do with physics — ask anyone who sat near me in school — but somehow Nigel and Niven made it click.

They managed to make a deep dive into aerodynamics entertaining. It was seriously in-depth, and I found myself appreciating just how much training, knowledge, and precision go into every single flight — and wondering why I ever thought my fear knew better. 

“What if the engine falls off?” 

“What if passengers bring extra baggage on board and it affects the weight of the plane?”

 “How can there be a safe landing if you’re flying across the Atlantic?”

“What if we get struck by lightning?”

“What if there’s something wrong with the left phalange?” Ok, I — or should I say Phoebe from Friends — made that one up, but if there was a left phalange, we’d worry about it.

We had all of our questions answered and more, and I even walked away with some new flight-nerd facts with which to impress my colleagues. 

Did you know that it’s the wing that enables the aircraft to fly, not the engine? Now you do. 

Did you know that the wings undergo an extreme stress test? They do, look!

How many wings does an aircraft have? 2? 4? Wrong. It has one. 

Do you know how much weight the paint on an airplane adds? Two tonnes. 

Most importantly, though, we gained a greater understanding of the numerous noises inside and outside the cabin (“Noise is good” was another mantra throughout the day), as well as the phantom threat haunting the skies. It strikes precisely when you’ve let your guard down and placed your drink on your lap: Turbulence. 

Enter the third chant of the day, “Turbulence is uncomfortable, not dangerous” 

They asked who among us has ever experienced severe turbulence. My hand smugly shot up along with a few others, as if to vindicate every intrusive table-gripping thought we’ve ever endured. 

Trick question. According to the pilots, they’ve never encountered severe turbulence in all their years in the sky, just garden-variety bumps that feel terrifying to us mere mortals because we don’t understand what’s happening. Which, frankly, felt like a personal attack. 

Imagine the plane is like a spoon in jelly, they told us. The jelly is the air—usually smooth until something stirs it. Then it wobbles. The spoon jiggles, but it won’t break. Planes work the same way. Air, they reminded us, has fluid properties. 

Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it’s not there, and like boats resting on a sea of water, planes rest on a sea of air. Sometimes, like water, the air gets choppy. It feels dramatic, sure, but really it’s just physics being physics. And dangerous? Not even close. 

By the time we wrapped up the physics of flight, it was time for a lunch break. More pilots mingled among the chatter, ready to answer questions or just chat casually. 

As I circled the room, I met people from all different backgrounds with different motives for beating their phobia.  

Wendy told me she never had a fear of flying until having children.

This, it turns out, is actually quite common. Aerophobia can sometimes heighten after having children. Some studies even suggest that hormonal fluctuations during and after pregnancy can even influence perceptions of safety and risk. 

Another common thread I heard throughout the day was from participants in caregiver positions. One man told me that he is an occupational therapist for children with diverse needs: 

Afternoon with a Psychologist: Understanding Your Fear

After lunch, we shuffle back into the conference room for phase two. A session with Simon, a psychologist who admittedly also suffered from aerophobia. 

“Exposure and response prevention is key,” he explains, while also encouraging psychological treatment over pharmaceutical intervention. 

Some choose to self-medicate by knocking back a few at the airport bar, but he tells us that the air pressure in the cabin actually leads to a greater feeling of intoxication and additional strain on the cardiovascular system. This exacerbates any underlying anxiety. 

Simon also educates us on the limbic system and the amygdala’s outdated response to threat. Basically, flying is still relatively new, and our brains haven't caught up with modern air travel. 

And when our fight-or-flight kicks in, the prefrontal cortex, our rational part of the brain, takes the back seat. Understanding that your panic is a false alarm, a sort of glitch in evolutionary wiring, makes it easier to interrupt that cycle of fear. It doesn’t magically erase the anxiety, but it arms you with a bit more self-compassion.

“Superstition also reinforces aerophobia,” he says, encouraging nervous travelers to ditch their lucky socks before taking off for the airport. Abandoning safety behaviors allows your brain to learn that the flight was safe not because you followed a ritual, but because flying is inherently safe. Letting go of these crutches is a key step in breaking the cycle of your phobia.

And while I do appreciate this well-intentioned advice rooted in CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy), I do think it risks oversimplifying and alienating the coping mechanisms of neurodivergent travelers among us. 

For 1 in 5, these routines, rituals, or sensory aids (noise-cancellation headphones, fidget tools, or even “lucky” items) aren’t superstition but essential regulating and self-soothing strategies that can make or break a flight.

That leads me to my one major criticism of the course: neurodivergent experiences — such as sensory overwhelm, information processing differences, or the need for routine and predictability — didn’t seem to be considered in the course design.

I asked them whether any neurodivergent passengers or advocacy groups had been consulted in the development process. Or whether they believed the aviation industry had a meaningful understanding of how conditions like autism, ADHD, or sensory processing disorder might shape someone’s flying experience.

I was met with a baffled look and a response along the lines of “No, because we’re trying to appeal to the general public.”

But of course, neurodivergent people are part of the general public, and we fly too, facing heightened anxiety and unique barriers when traveling. 

A course that aims to help people feel more confident about flying has a real opportunity to be more inclusive and attuned to diverse neurological needs. Ignoring that doesn’t just miss the mark; it unintentionally reinforces the idea that only certain kinds of fear, or certain kinds of minds, are worth accommodating.

To their credit, the instructor was very kind and open to the feedback. They listened thoughtfully and seemed genuinely interested in understanding how they could improve the framework. 

A Flight to Nowhere

The final phase was to board our private flight. Divided up into smaller groups led by airport chaplains, we shuffled over to Heathrow’s Terminal 5. The chaplains treated it like it was the first time we’ve ever stepped into an airport because, for some, it was. 

They explained what to expect of check-in and security procedures before boarding, walked us through security, and made sure that anyone with even a slight hint of nervousness was put at ease. 

Next came the flight to nowhere, aka circling London’s perimeter for 30 minutes — grueling for some and liberating for others.

Each row had at least one volunteer airport chaplain in case any assistance was needed. And as soon as the cabin doors closed, the familiar, soothing lilt of Niven’s Northern Irish accent came over the intercom and didn’t leave us until landing. 

He walked us through the whole flight, from telling us to "breathe and squeeze" and repeating "everything is normal, noise is good," to giving us a play-by-play of every operation, noise, position, and movement of the plane. He even explained what we'd feel in our bodies.

Final Descent

As the wheels touched down back at Heathrow, the cabin let out a collective sigh. Some people laughed, others cried. A few high-fived or hugged their seatmates like they’d just finished a marathon. 

Did everyone board? No. Did everyone who did suddenly “cure” their fear? Not exactly. But nearly everyone walked away feeling the shackles of anxiety crack, if only slightly. And out of the dozens of people I asked after the course if they’d recommend it, every single one said yes.

For me, the real test came during my flight home; I half expected to slip back into old habits. But instead of panicking, I found myself armed with tools and knowledge to fight against panic. I caught myself really listening — to the engines, to the flaps, to the background hum and beeps — and instead of bracing for disaster, I heard Nigel and Niven’s voices explaining exactly what each sound meant. When the bumps hit, my body still jolted, but my mind finally had something to anchor to. “Noise is good. Turbulence is uncomfortable, not dangerous. Spoon in jelly.” 

And for the first time, I smiled. Not because I suddenly adored flying, but because, for once, it didn’t feel like cheating my version of Final Destination, it just felt like getting home. 

And maybe most important of all, I realized I wasn’t alone. Talking to parents, caregivers, first-time flyers, and even seasoned travellers who’d been quietly terrified for decades, it hit me that my fear wasn’t some personal failing. It was human. And if thousands of others could learn to fly with confidence, then so could I.

Would I Recommend the Flying with Confidence Course?

If flying feels like a prison sentence keeping you from living the life you want: I absolutely recommend the course. It’s not cheap, and it’s not perfect (especially if you have sensory sensitivities, are on the spectrum, or experience heightened anxiety in noisy or crowded environments), but it mostly works.

It reframes flying not as a death sentence, but as what it actually is: one of the safest, most extraordinary ways to move through the world.

Since then, I’ve flown five more times. And with each flight, the panic loosens its grip. And surprisingly, my sensory overwhelm isn’t as sharp, because now I can decode what’s happening instead of drowning in the unknown.

So, do I prefer take off or landing? I used to think the answer was whichever one didn’t kill me. Now, after this course, I’m starting to believe the answer can simply be: both.