Opening Up About Mental Health When You Work on a Cruise Ship
I almost didn’t write this.
Not because it isn’t true, but because it feels tricky.
On ships, you learn quickly what’s okay to say out loud, and what isn’t.
You learn how to smile when you’re exhausted, how to nod when someone tells you to “just stay positive,” and how to keep moving even when everything inside you wants to pause.
Talking about mental health while working on cruise ships isn’t easy. Not because we don’t feel it, but because we do – deeply, silently, and often in isolation.
This is just my version of what that feels like. Maybe it’s yours too.
You’re surrounded by people, but no one knows what’s happening inside your head.
There are always people around. Cabinmates. Guests. Supervisors. Crew lounging. Loud alleyways. Shared everything.
But sometimes it feels like you’re disappearing in plain sight.
You keep doing your job – writing reports, updating spreadsheets, filing forms – but inside, you’re wondering what you’re really doing with your life.
You’re under pressure to get it right. But sometimes, you’re not even sure what “right” looks like.
You feel like you should be grateful for this cruise ship life. You’re sending money home. Your family is proud of you. You're doing this for them as much as for yourself.
And still, some days feel impossible.
Even if you wanted to fall apart, there’s no time, no place, and no privacy.
Working on a cruise ship doesn’t come with many exit routes.
You can’t take a day off. You can’t go home. You can’t even go for a walk without being asked, “Off duty?”
There’s no bedroom door to close behind you. No living room to disappear into. No place that belongs only to you.
If you want to cry, you have to time it. Maybe in the shower, if the water pressure is high enough to cover the sound.
Maybe in a hidden stairwell. Maybe after your shift, curled up in your bunk with headphones on.
There’s no space to process things – no pause button. Just shift after shift after shift.
Sometimes the silence protects you. Other times, it eats away at you.
We don’t talk about cruise ship crew mental health openly.
There’s a silent expectation to keep your struggles to yourself.
Because you might be sent home. You might be seen as a liability. You might lose your chance at another contract.
So you learn to stay quiet. You become good at hiding it.
You laugh when someone makes a dark joke in the crew bar, because it’s safer to laugh than to ask if they’re okay.
You keep working, because it’s easier than explaining why you can’t.
But eventually, the silence becomes a second kind of pressure. Not just the weight of how you feel, but the weight of pretending you don’t.
Is this just me, or does everyone seem a little lost in their own way?
Sometimes I wonder how many of us are dealing with more than we admit.
You notice it when someone suddenly goes quiet. When they stare out at the ocean and zone out for a little too long. When the tears show up during a shift and don’t really have an obvious reason.
You hear it in the jokes that hit too hard. The sarcasm that feels a little too real.
Some are living with anxiety. Some are dealing with depression, silently. Most of us are just trying to hold it together.
And no one wants to be the first to say it out loud.
You don’t have to fix everything. You just have to survive it.
Not every day is terrible. There are good ones, too.
Moments that feel like oxygen – dancing after work, laughing over instant noodles in the mess, standing at the railing and remembering why you came here.
But the hard days are real.
And on those days, maybe the only thing you can do is breathe.
Maybe it’s stepping outside to see the horizon, even if just for a minute.
Maybe it’s crying and not apologising for it.
Maybe it’s texting someone who knows you without the uniform.
Maybe it’s just making it to the next shift, and the next, and the next, until it feels lighter again.
Cruise ship crew mental health deserves more space, more care, and more honesty.
But for now, if all you can do is feel what you feel, and keep going – that’s enough.
You are enough. (Cue Citizen Soldiers).
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