The Solo Traveller
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Health and Wellbeing
Photographer: Patrick Rosenkranz | Unsplash
The long way around
By Michael Webster
Briefly …
Long-haul flights can feel like a test of endurance but understanding what’s really happening to your body and mind can change the experience.
Somewhere over the Indian Ocean between the snacks, the wine, and the movies, it happened – my mind and body lost the plot. Not obviously, in a manner that might have alarmed the cabin crew and my fellow passengers, but quietly … a peculiar panic-infused vacancy coupled with a strange emotional thinness … an overwhelming sense that time and place had simply collapsed.
It was my first long-haul flight (from Melbourne, Australia, to London), and due to my heightened state of anticipation, apprehension and, well, fear, I had done nothing whatsoever to prepare for what can be an incredibly challenging experience. Having been used to short-haul domestic trips up the east coast of Australia, nothing could have prepared me for the challenge of what is, for the uninitiated, a spectacular feat of endurance.
Getting out of my seat, I walked to the back of the aircraft where a couple of the cabin crew were engaged in casual conversation. Trying to make as much sense as I could as I described my situation, their support was amazing. I was dehydrated and had consumed more inflight alcohol (on top of my many celebratory pre-departure G&Ts). I hadn’t moved my legs and feet at all, which is why they were either numb, cramped, or tingling, and what seemed like the never-ending number of hours left in the flight was creating a level of claustrophobic apprehension with which I was not coping.
Photographer: Omar Prestwich | Unsplash
Understanding the manufactured environment in which we fly, and the effect it has on our mind and body, is key to ensuring the experience of a long-haul flight isn’t the mind-bending ordeal it can be.
Aircraft cabins are carefully engineered environments that are designed to keep the human body functioning at cruising altitudes where our survival would otherwise be impossible. As a plane climbs, the cabin is pressurised with air drawn from the engines and conditioned to maintain an atmosphere equivalent to roughly 1,800–2,400 metres above sea level – an atmosphere in which the body operates with less available oxygen than it is used to at ground level. For most healthy passengers this is tolerable, but it subtly affects the body in ways we don’t expect or understand.
Oxygen saturation in our blood drops slightly, which can contribute to fatigue, light-headedness, and that familiar long-haul fog. Our hearts work a little harder, our breathing becomes marginally faster, and sleep is lighter and less restorative. For some people, particularly those who are dehydrated, anxious, or sensitive to altitude, this reduced-oxygen environment can amplify headaches, nausea, and a general sense of physical unease – even if nothing is ‘wrong’ with us in a medical sense.
Humidity, too, is kept low to protect the aircraft structure, while temperature and airflow are tightly controlled to balance comfort, safety, and fuel efficiency. The result is a sealed, not quite natural and not quite hostile, artificial ecosystem that allows us to sit, sleep, eat, and exist for hours on end at 35,000 feet, even if our bodies quietly notice the compromise, as mine clearly did.
Photographer: Chalabala
Most travellers instinctively try to cope with these effects by walking the aisles, adjusting food intake, and napping at odd hours. What’s often missing, though, is reassurance about which strategies help our internal clocks adapt most effectively. The flight environment compounds our wellbeing challenges, with dry air, recycled cabin atmosphere, prolonged sitting, and irregular mealtimes all playing their part. What I learned is that once in the air, our wellbeing comes down to granting ourselves permission to move regularly (even if it might annoy the others seated next to us), to rest imperfectly, and to eat in ways that support our internal rhythms rather than fight them. Light also becomes our ally, with strategic exposure helping orient our body clock to our destination’s day and night cycle.
Research findings by the University of Sydney’s Charles Perkins Centre and Australian airline Qantas show it is possible to reshape the inflight travel experience. Qantas operated three Project Sunrise research flights from New York and London to Sydney in partnership with the researchers to collect real-world passenger data. While the trials involved a small number of participants and are not yet peer-reviewed, the findings suggest that carefully timed in-flight interventions can meaningfully reduce the physical and cognitive disruption caused by ultra-long-haul travel. By aligning cabin lighting, meal services, movement and rest periods with passengers’ biological clocks, researchers observed improved sleep duration and quality during the flight, more appropriate patterns of activity and rest, and stronger cognitive performance.
Preparing well doesn’t require perfection or strict discipline. In the days before departure, gentle adjustments to sleep and mealtimes that align with your destination can soften the physiological impact, a practice especially important for solo travellers who carry the entire mental load alone. Proper hydration and reducing stress before the flight also set the stage for an easier crossing of time zones.
“Proper hydration and reducing stress before the flight also set the stage for an easier crossing of time zones.”
Long-haul travel will probably never feel effortless but it doesn’t have to be punishing. When we understand what’s happening beneath the surface, we are able to stop blaming ourselves for the wobble. Instead, we start travelling with our bodies, rather than dragging them across time zones in our wake … and somewhere over the ocean, that shift in perspective can make all the difference.
Source: The University of Sydney, Australia.
Michael Webster is a dedicated solo traveller and The Solo Traveller Group’s International Community Development Lead.