Love a Job

I once thought I’d have the coolest job. I imagined that when I grew up, I’d have a career that would make people say, “Whoa! That’s what you do?” — something where I could pour creativity into my everyday work.

But reality shifted. Now, I sit at my desk day after day, counting down the days until my next vacation. And yes, I know I’m lucky to even have that. Many people don’t. Still, here I am — a complaining millennial.

Our parents, the boomer generation, worked because they had to afford a life. They earned their degree, and a job was there waiting. Millennials, on the other hand, were told we needed five years of experience for an entry-level job. And now? I’ll be honest — I don’t enjoy it anymore. Most people would tell me to “sit down, be quiet, and be grateful” that I’m getting paid. But every week, I spend more time dreaming about not being at work than doing the work itself.

Is it so wrong to want to look forward to going to work? Instead, I dread every day. I sit in my car, take the biggest sigh I can muster, and walk in. I’m bored. My creativity is boxed in — “Here’s the box, now fit into it.” Some days I want to quit, go to cosmetology school, and do hair and makeup for a living. Then that voice in my head chimes in: How will you pay for bread?

Being a creative type is hard. We still need a 9–5 to afford life, and then we try to work on our real goals in the margins. Would I love to be a social media manager, playing with content, editing photos, and building engagement all day? Absolutely. But starting at the bottom for just above minimum wage is a bitter pill to swallow.

I thought I’d be the one to “love my job.” Now, I see it for what it is: something that pays for my vacations. My desktop background is a picture of Italy with a countdown ticking away the days. I once dreamed of working for a place like BuzzFeed — writing quirky articles, making funny videos, or creating weird quizzes like “Which Summer Dress Are You?” I thought my English degree would mean something. But here, I’m writing the occasional letter — always from a file titled “Letter Template 2025.”

There has to be more to life than tracking down files or color-coding folders. Honestly, my job could probably be done by ChatGPT or AI without anyone noticing. Yet, I still show up — mostly because of a sticky note on my desk that reads:

You don’t have to love your job. You just have to love the life it pays for.

And that’s the choice I’ve made every day for the last ten years since graduating. The boomers were right — you don’t have to love your job. You just have to do it, and then enjoy life after it’s done. That’s when you go out with friends, watch a movie in the park, lie in a hammock drinking mojitos from a can, try glow-in-the-dark mini golf, or bowl with neon pins.

We can all have that 9–5, and still enjoy life outside it. But here’s the thing: I’m exhausted all the time. Not because of the job itself — I’ve recently realized it’s because of the person I’ve had to become to do the job. And I don’t like that person. That person is quiet, exhausted, burned out, stressed out over what? Over a job. I've lost the person I once was and not in the "I am growing up sense" but in the sense where I don't know what I am doing anymore.

That’s why I’m looking for a change. A switch. But right now, it feels like the lights are off… and I can’t find the switch to turn myself back on. I am drained from everything at work that I don't want to do anything else other than sit in front of the tv watching a show that I've watched for the millionth time. Where is that damn switch?