You Didn't Fail Because You Don't Have a Big Life
Maybe the world failed you.
A few weeks ago, an acquaintance from my book publishing days posted a plea on LinkedIn. She’s been looking for work, tirelessly. She sent hundreds of resumes, penned as many cover letters. Worked her network, took more classes—she did all the things, and yet, she can’t make her mortgage payment. Her words cleaved to me because she seemed confounded by what she considered her failure. We are of the same generation and we were reared to believe if we got the fancy education, worked hard enough, handed over a pound of flesh and several pints of blood to employers who can fire as at will, we will prosper.
Though we weren’t taught the systematic (and systemic) inequities that make this fiction fantastic. We weren’t taught that the world is set up to revere billionaires (who, by default, profit from misfortune) and flees from people who aren’t able-bodied, healthy, thin, white, and well-educated. We were handed the biggest lie of all and it’s taken many of us decades to figure that out.
Many of my friends are in their 40s and 50s, and it feels as if they’ve awoken from a great, deep sleep. They take stock and measure of their lives and say, this is it? I work 60-70 hours a week to work through my vacation to spend time away from the people I love to buy things I need and more I don’t need? This is it?
And while Gen-Z claims to have discovered this concept as if it were new, they at least have the luxury of time. Many of us have fewer years ahead than what we’ve left behind and while there are oceans of regret, we still wade in dark waters to the possibilities, which feel fewer and farther in between.
Especially if you’re not pretty, thin, young, monied and white.
I felt for my friend deeply when she published that post because only a few months earlier I felt like an epic failure. What had I done wrong? Which turn did I take that seemed irreversible? I have the degrees and experience, but I also have the realization that I don’t want to work myself to death for a title. Equity in exchange for work is not appealing to me. Living to bolster someone else’s dream isn’t living. Although I’ve been masking for much of my adult life, I don’t like working in an office. It’s too overwhelming, and the politicking makes the actual work look like a game of Simon Says.
It occurred to me—what if the system failed us? What if the great lie of capitalism was a dream offered to the rarefied few? Why else would millions of people struggle to make their monthly bills? Why else would many make difficult choices between necessities—do we eat or keep the lights on? Do we ignore that pain in our chest because the idea of seeing a doctor is unfathomable. And if we do see a doctor what are the odds of being judged, ignored, or billed for tests unrelated to our condition.
I used to be meek and compliant around doctors—now if I get a whiff of any off vibes, I am a tyrannical asshole because no one will advocate for my health more than me. No one knows my body more than me.
So, I typed a response to my friend: Don’t be embarrassed or ashamed to set up a GoFundMe to buy groceries. The system failed us. Because here she was—willing, able, and ready to work with no job in sight. There I was a few months ago with tumbleweed in my mailbox and crickets chirping in house.
We’re reared to feel ashamed if we don’t have all the trappings of our promised paradise. We fear the whispers, the doubt from co-workers and colleagues. We don’t want to stand out, kick up a fuss. And yet, the means and modes of employment haven’t changed that much since I entered the workforce in 1997. Sure, we may have more trinkets and gadgets but the majority of Americans commute to work, many still live riddled with student loan and credit card debt, and many more so are now taking care of their children and aging parents. Everything is more expensive yet salaries inch upward at a snail’s pace. Our lives feel Sisyphean, yet we’re told to think happy thoughts and why not drown your sorrows with hours of scrolling on a device or a catatonic-inducing Netflix binge?
I know I’m saying what everyone knows to be true, but yet we still think we’ve failed in some way. The responsibility is still solely upon our feet to endure (and thrive) inflation, social and political upheaval, and complicated health and personal lives.
We are expected to be superhuman. Smiling automatons out of a Fritz Lang film.
Recently, I’ve had the great privilege of writing a case study for a fancy MBA program. I enjoyed the work so much because of the solitude and the level of obsessive detail it requires. Edits are made through a Google doc and we only speak on a debrief call. I work hard and long, but when it suits me. And when I was offered the opportunity to write a second one, I thought, my god, I could do a few of these a year, along with a project and have just enough to pay my bills.
Because that’s all I want anymore. No longer am I tethered to titles and ambition. No longer do I care about a Knopf book deal. I’m exceptional, I’ve nothing left to prove. All I want is a simple, quiet life. To work, write, thrift, and spend time with the people I love most.
Post-Script:
Do I know any graphic designers who would be willing to barter? I want to create a little header for this newsletter. I can trade in marketing consult or writing consult.
This essay was inspired by this essay. It’s good. Trust.
Zadie Smith on the eternal why.
First, Gen-X is ignored, then we’re loathed. Groundbreaking.
AI needs regulation. If the founder of ChatGPT is saying this, it’s even more real. Also, how AI reduces the world to stereotype. Listen, I’m not an AI hater—I love it and use it, but it’s a tool not Jesus. It’s not meant to save.
Plotless books have existed since forever, but apparently this is a new trend?
If we want to fix the internet, we have to move away from big platforms.
Outstanding! Although I'm a generation older, I also feel the constant sense of being lied to and otherwise "promised" that if we followed the plan laid out for us, we would end up with the pretty little house at the end of the street, 2 cars in the garage, and just enough money left over from our pension check to pay for a week in a San Diego Holiday Inn four blocks off the beach. - once a year. And yet, here's the irony: The majority of those I grew up with followed that plan. And now, in their late sixties and early seventies, they're miserable. They dream of time travel, getting a second chance, going back and doing it over -and this time, getting it right. Then reality kicks in, and regret consumes a little more of their humanity.
Really great read!
Ah, Felicia, once again, you nailed it. I have no wise words and am grateful that I was years ahead in what you are dealing with. (As in I'm that much older!) I hope your friend finds work.