I sold my house to live on a cruise ship. It was a humiliating reality check.
It started with a friend's social posts: sunsets at sea, exotic ports, and those wine-soaked dinners that look like they belong in a movie montage.
He was a wine connoisseur and worked as a sommelier on cruise ships, hosting dinners while casually visiting places I had dreamed of capturing with my lens.
When I reached out for more information, he encouraged me to take my expertise onboard as a photography guide; to teach guests how to "see" with their cameras.
Then my algorithm kicked in.
Suddenly, cruise ship photography jobs started showing up in my feed, as if my phone had been eavesdropping on the whole conversation.
I applied.
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Two different cruise lines offered me positions as their Master Photographer. That title sounded like a grown-up gold star.
Master. Photographer. As if I would be holding court with a camera, exploring exotic ports by day, sipping something tropical by night, and being appreciated for my expertise like a floating artist in residence.
I accepted without doing the one thing I should have done: researching what it actually meant to be a crew member on a corporate cruise ship. Here is the oversight I wish I could tape to every job listing I looked at, starry-eyed; before embarking, research crew life, not the far-flung ports.
Sue Barr. 
I was in my mid 60s. My son was adamant he was not returning to New Jersey after graduation, and I was deep in debt from years of juggling single motherhood by choice, building my photography business in an ever-competitive field, and trying to keep an older home from falling apart.
At one point, I had planned an extended stay in Costa Rica, the tropical reset I was craving, but then my furnace broke down, and the trip evaporated. I needed emotional rejuvenation, but instead I got a new heating system.
I did not just want a change of scenery. I needed one. Financially. Emotionally. Spiritually.
So I sold everything, including my house.
As I sorted through rooms, I noticed how little the objects mattered. It was never the things, only the memories. And memories do not require storage space.
I photographed what mattered, donated most of the rest, and watched the remnants of my old life line the curb. Letting go gave me breathing room for the first time in years. I could imagine what came next.
Susan Barr sold home for a life on a cruise.
Sue Barr's personal effects line the curb as her home prepares for sale. 
I closed on my house in May 2024, and then I learnt I needed a Seafarer Certificate to qualify to work aboard a ship.
It sounded official until I realised it meant weeks of online classes and tests, visas, abnormal amounts of paperwork, and a medical exam specific to maritime law.
'The reality check.'
I am officially a seafarer, and I do not say that flippantly.
I earned the title by taking countless procedure, safety, and environmental waste classes, and undergoing a thorough (and gruelling) medical evaluation. The medical clearance dragged on, slowed by a series of specialist visits required, because I was over the preferred age and weight for a traditional seafarer.
If you think working on a cruise ship has glamour or prestige, let me gently ruin that for you.
The medical assessment included a functional capacity test and a nuclear stress test. I had to climb a 50-centimetre step 150 times in five minutes without passing out. It's a very specific kind of humiliation: sweating in front of strangers, while they hold a clipboard.
It took two tries, but I passed.
Then came the treadmill, the IV, the blood pressure cuff, and the feeling that I was auditioning for my own job.
None of it was covered by my insurance or employer. It was expensive and out-of-pocket.
I told myself it was a small investment in the opportunity to see the world.
It became clear that no matter how qualified I was as an award-winning photographer, I had to prove myself twice over physically just to be cleared to work abroad. Ageism and sexism are not just alive in the cruise industry; they are baked into the onboarding process.
By early June, I was told I would be joining a ship in July, embarking from Southampton in the UK.
That plan quickly unravelled.
First, it was Southampton. Then the Nordic fjords. Then Rome. And finally, Sydney. I was given almost no clear communication about my start date, the port I would embark from, or, how long my contract would be.
Sue Barr in Sydney.
I was a real person trying to plan flights, logistics, and a life, yet I was expected to absorb it all without question. I did, because I told myself I was heading to bucket list ports on someone else's dime.
Onboard, there was a thin line between protocol and performance. The rules felt murky, shifting depending on who you would ask.
Whenever I raised questions or offered suggestions, the response was almost always the same: "It's just not on brand."
That phrase shut me up fast, as I understood brand speak intimately after years of shooting commercial and editorial content.
I learnt the rules the way you learn them in a dysfunctional family: by getting in trouble. Not until I did something wrong did anyone explain the right procedure.
I had a formal hearing because I thanked an officer with a very New York phrase: "Thanks, hon." Apparently hon is not an acceptable form of respect in international waters. I should have said "Sir" or "Madam." Anything else was deemed insubordinate.
During my second hearing, it was brought up that I referred to life onboard as "militant." That definitely hit a sore spot with management.
I was given a sick day because of a minor ailment that kept me from being guest-facing, yet I was told I could not go out on leave until I was fit for duty.
It truly felt like a military operation.
I did not have to wear a uniform, but I did have to dress in all black business casual with sensible shoes. The all-black part was easy. I am a diehard New York creative who worked as a fashion stylist before I ever picked up a camera, so black is basically my native language.
But business casual on a cruise ship is code for "do not stand out," especially not as a woman. It means shapeless, unflattering, aggressively personality-free.
I was an anomaly on the crew — an American who had run her own business and worked for Fortune 500 companies. I was also a senior, not just working for the pay cheque, but for the chance to see the world. I was more aligned with the guest demographic than with many of my fellow crew, most of whom were from developing countries and took long-term contracts paid in American dollars. Living and working on ships had become their way of life.
Others were young and untethered, living a carefree lifestyle after hours at the crew bar hidden below deck. Their mantra was: "it is what it is."
Sue Barr with a crew mate. 
I failed miserably at the art of superficial compliance.
My real-world experience, which I once believed would be an asset, became a liability because I kept offering solutions. Yet, I continued to generate substantial revenue, which made my presence onboard inconveniently useful.
I thought I would see the world, eat delicious culinary delights, be celebrated for my experience and passion, and deliver images unique to my style. The product I actually delivered was closer to school photos for retirees.
Most days, I chose rest over meals, not out of preference, but due to relentless hours, tight deadlines, and the ever-present threat of termination if expectations were not met.
As for rewards, dedication was acknowledged with a week of free internet or a dance party after 11pm. Neither incentive compensated for the exhausting labour and long hours.
Living quarters were a masterclass in minimalism. Imagine sharing a windowless shoebox with a roommate, where the bathroom golden rule was: do not flush toilet paper (due to the risk of clogging it).
Being assigned the bottom bunk meant you could not sit up in bed to read, not that it mattered, as exhaustion usually had you collapsing into it. A steamy shower could trigger the fire alarm, leading to a high-pitched wail that pierced the corridors and often took over an hour to silence.
Drills were frequent and often encroached on precious downtime. Cabin inspections were routine, and officers would hunt for contraband like tea kettles or curling irons.
Crew could not use guest lifts and crew lifts were often crowded or out of service. The constant stair climbing of around eight to ten floors a day, meant I lost quite a few kilograms
That might have been the only cherry on this very humbling experience.
Quitting was not really an option. Doing so meant being dropped off at the next port, with no guarantee of a flight home. Repatriation costs could consume over a month's pay, effectively trapping you in a gilded cage at sea.
My 'adventure' at sea ended most unexpectedly.
In late September, we entered dry dock in Singapore for a full ship refresh.
For a reason still unclear to me, the Master Photographer was deemed essential during the overhaul. Suddenly, I was part of the construction crew.
I was issued a boiler suit, plus safety shoes, and assigned to oversee an influx of international contractors who would live and work onboard.
The days were long, and spent supervising renovations, scrubbing down photo galleries, and, at one point, scraping fungus off the floor on my hands and knees.
Dry dock conditions were brutal. Air conditioning was minimal or nonexistent. Water was often rationed. Meals resembled slop, and we frequently ran out of basics.
Dust permeated every corner of the ship.
When something got into my eye, it caused a corneal abrasion that would not heal.
It wasn't a serious condition by any means, but to heal, it needed rest. Yet, a baby-faced doctor insisted I was still fit for duty.
After weeks of recurring visits, he finally recommended I see a specialist when I reached Hong Kong.
The specialist confirmed the truth; I needed a few days of rest in the dark. I was put on medical leave.
Wearing the eye patch the ophthalmologist deemed necessary, and with less than an hour's notice, I was sent home on a 28-hour flight from Hong Kong to Miami.
Thus concluded my voyage, a masterclass in irony, endurance, and the fine art of grinning through the absurd.
The moments that reminded me why I chose this path.
My time as a seafarer was nothing like the adventure I had imagined when I first boarded that 31-hour flight to Sydney.
The romantic vision of life at sea gave way to a daily grind filled with strict rules, long hours, and limited freedom.
Yet amid the challenges, I found moments that reminded me why I chose this path.
Singapore became my sanctuary. After gruelling shifts, I could step off the ship each night, disappear into its subway system, and eat my way through its extraordinary mix of Asian and Indian cuisines.
Those small escapes were lifelines, proof that the world I came for still existed beyond the ship rails.
Sue Barr. 
It made the next days onboard more palatable because I knew there would be another port.
Although I missed out on destinations like Phuket and Koh Phi Phi because of tendering restrictions for crew, I was fortunate enough to experience the serene spirituality of Bali, the rich heritage of Penang, the buzzing energy of Ho Chi Minh City, and Bangkok.
Bali, Penang, Ho Chi Minh City and Bangkok were other highlights. Image: Sue Barr.
I still remember my first day in Sydney after a gruelling 31-hour flight.
I made the four-kilometre walk through rain-soaked streets to see the famed Opera House in person, knowing the ship would depart the next day and I might never see the landmark again.
I made the long walk to the Sydney Opera House, knowing I may not see it again. Image: Sue Barr.
When we departed from Sydney Harbour, I watched its glowing silhouette fade into the night. It was a bittersweet reminder of the beauty I came searching for — even amid a life constrained by routine and protocol.
I still want to travel, deeply, curiously, and on my own terms. I dream of a prolonged stay in Bali and Vietnam, not as a seafarer, but as someone savouring the world with both feet on land.
I want you to know me. I was looking for relief from debt, a sense of reward after raising a son who was successfully living independently, and most of all, a creative reset.
I found it, just not on board a cruise ship.
Feature image: Supplied.
