Your Job Is a Paycheck, Not Your Family
Let’s stop pinning a pretty bow on capitalism. And start leaning into life outside of the office borders.
They surprise you with a birthday cake. Confetti sprinkles, candles, and a card signed by thirty people. Playful memes in your inbox. Pats on the back are jocular, familiar. They ask after your family, know the names and ages of your children. Maybe they even know about the fertility treatments, the struggle and heartbreak, or your parent’s mind fading from view. The hospital visits where you’ve become a stranger to the person who held you tight and safe in her womb.
You spend eight, ten, maybe twelve hours a day with a group of people cobbled together because everyone has a defined role and function, and the alchemy is in the collaboration and creation, the finely-tuned engine chuffing and humming revenue. You’re part of this engine, with the idea being you exchange your talent and time for your employers’ money. It’s a simple transaction, made complicated by a society that tells you to seek nirvana in the Monday morning huddle. The bold and brilliant lie that your work is your family.
Until profit spirals and your family calls you into a room and hands you a slim packet. It’s a business decision, nothing personal, your family tells you. Your family…
