careers are dead
// a memorial for america
Careers are the sum (( not the whole)).
They mold you in ways that become definitive at best- an organic characteristic of their species.
They speak for you.
Careers have never learned to let you determine your meaning. They are moms who want to claim ownership over your success and never let you feel what was yours to begin with- autonomy.
Tell me who I am on Linkedin. Approve of me in digital landscapes, in bios, in the deep seat of folderless PDFs.
I produce; therefore, I am.
Careers offer you the safety of the grave but don’t allow you to compost in the soil.
They coddle your bones -resting through dissociation - assured you won’t touch the ground once more. That mycelium network is too dangerous. They won’t understand who you are without the casket giving it meaning. It’s something to hold.
The grave explains everything you’ve done and what you were able to accomplish in a timeline. The soil inquires about your favorite snack, what you think about during sunsets, and how your body recalibrated after your first heartbreak.
You graduated from this school, you took this role, and you continued in this position. It all feels like echoes in the cave of your Divine Plan.
“Who goes there?”
”It’s me, your identity.”
Darkness evades and it swims all around you. Whispers of titles and achievements stuck to the walls like ancestral storytelling- careers are their own lineage. They exist as solitary family trees and keep secrets between the limbs.
Careers have no shame.
They relish in pride and prefer ketchup over mustard on your job hot dog. They’re bold and they prove a point. They dance with exclamation marks and demand attention in a room full of periods.
They give you a name.
Don’t ask how I ate alone in a stall in 6th grade.
I rather know your KPIs from Q1 to inform me of your essence instead.
Careers are dead.
They seek to offer you a beating heart, but you wind up restless from catching validation in your dream catcher above your head.
You grow tired.
Linear as you pretend to be, career melatonin becomes your role in this life, replacing the role of being alive. Your body gives up and falls fast asleep.
It’s in our silly little dreams that we are awake as our true selves.
You can’t possibly be the secret poet who simply can’t bear monetizing a passion, so you must simply be the electrical engineer (as that is what you told me when I first inquired, no?).
Careers seep into insidious IVs that hydrate you in spaces of new people, ready to give you the internal juice to keep going when someone asks what you do for a living.
Well, for starters: you read Substacks on a slow Sunday morning, you collect receipts and parking tickets to put into junk journals because tangible memories are a passage of human joy, and you dare to eat pasta with unshakable reverence for parmesan cheese. That is what you do for a living. But I must be mistaken, I asked “What do you do for a living?”
Well, if I truly must know: you turn your phone on airplane mode at the coffee shop just for the thrill of being temporarily exiled. You’re watching Sex and the City for the 4th time on the projector to soothe your 30s (cold plunge/sauna intervals could never compare). You’re up late at night YouTubing “How to Build an A-Frame” with no intention of ever truly doing so. But forgive me, I asked, “What do you do?”
Your career at this point is internally boiling to the zenith degree and begs of you to exclaim what is is you do precisely and you say, “I live.”
That is what you do for a living? You live?
Daunting, isn’t it?
Careers are dying and you are living to tell the tale.
Congratulations.
Your skin is shedding, your brain is creating new neural pathways, and you are living outside of your career’s destined life.
I couldn’t be more proud.
x
If exploring who you are outside of your career (!) feels enticing on an atomic level, I invite you to explore the art of Substacking with me &
in our workshop: All About Substack.Emmie has been a long-time inspiration, muse, and linguistic center to many of my personal quakes. Together, we have come to co-create again to find solace in a world of fast-food content creation. In this workshop, we are calling all creatives, writers, non-writers, non-creatives, and humans of all kinds to build a slow social refuge on Substack. The place that is a true exhale amongst Wim Hof Style platforms.
And no, this isn’t about algorithms or clickbait or keeping up. It’s about writing as a practice, about finding readers who resonate, about creating in a way that feels sustainable.
If you would like to ((gently)) unearth your dopamine addiction/hunger for content validation, this is your sign to be replenished in a very nutritive way. You won’t want to miss it if you’ve been feeling the nudge to return to the era of girl blogging.
Accessible, intimate, and oozing with untapped potential. This is the All About Substack Workshop hosted live on March 25th at 11 am AEDT. A replay will be sent out for those who can’t attend live ______ see you there ꩜
Get outta here with how perfect this line is!!!! 🤯🤯🤯 “The grave explains everything you’ve done and what you were able to accomplish in a timeline. The soil inquires about your favorite snack, what you think about during sunsets, and how your body recalibrated after your first heartbreak.”
Wowzas, so powerful!