Dear liven Elle,

This isn’t a shocking confession. There’s no scandal here. But it’s also not something I would ever say out loud.

I hate my job.

I hate the environment, the people I work with, the conversations that feel forced. I hate the duties that fill my days. The tasks that once looked appealing on paper but now feel heavy, too difficult and overwhelming. Every morning I wake up knowing exactly how the day will feel. This is the kind of predictability that anti 9-5’ers warned us about. Why I chose to ignore it? I don’t know.

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Safety over desire

I guess in this the economy, quitting isn’t “bold”. It’s a financial risk I simply cannot afford. Jobs in my industry are scarce unless you have a strong network behind you – the kind I don’t have.

And believe me, I’ve tried.

I’ve polished my LinkedIn profile. I’ve reached out. I’ve applied for several positions. I’ve refreshed my inbox more times than I’d like to admit… hoping for something other than silence. Nothing.

So I go to work.

Not because I’m passionate or believe in what I do. I go because I have bills and because adulthood does not pause for dissatisfaction, or while you’re trying to “figure it out”. Responsibility has a louder voice than desire.

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Some days I fantasise about pivoting into something completely different, giving myself a fresh start. But even that thought fills me with fear. Starting from scratch sounds inspiring in theory, but financially unrealistic at my age and with my lifestyle as I’d have to start at the bottom of the ladder. Reinvention is expensive. Stability feels so much safer, even if I feel miserable along the way.

It’s a strange place to be in: trapped between gratitude and resentment; between ambition and practicality; between what I want and what I can realistically do.

It’s horrible but for now, it’s my reality. I guess I’ve settled and told myself, in a resigned way, that “Such is life”.