Not to be the person who dreams of labor, but we all had a dream job at one point. Now, I’m leaving mine
The official time of death of my dream is July 28, 2024 at 6 p.m. Whether you’re reading this before or after that, I’m either tearfully tying up loose ends at my dream job or on a flight back to my hometown leaving everything I’ve known for the past four years behind.
Dramatic, I know.
Other people claim they do not dream of labor, but as a child poring over the glossy pages of magazines, I most certainly did. Seeing my name on its glossy pages was the dream. I used to fantasize about strutting through a well-appointed office in high heels on my way to an editor’s meeting a la Andy Sachs from the life changing “The Devil Wears Prada.”
I’d be a common figure at the coolest parties with my inbox full of invites to all the most sought after events. Scheduling shoots, eating at all the best restaurants, and rubbing elbows with the rich and famous would be a normal day at work.
In my prepubescent dreams, I would undoubtedly be the shit.
And it would please my prepubescent self to know that I did all of that—the parties, the full inbox, shoots, restaurants, and even the elbows. I got (almost) everything that I wanted and did (more importantly, ate) everything beyond my wildest imaginations.
So why is the dream dead?
Thank you (or curse you?), Tablo
If I have anyone to thank (or blame) for how everything has turned out, it would likely be Tablo from the Korean hip-hop trio Epik High. Everyone did insane things during the pandemic, and my insane thing was leaving my high-paying job with no backup plan.
During my final days at the office when masks and face shields were still a thing, I listened to a song he co-wrote. It spurred me to write an essay about how mind-bendingly good the song was, which led me to write a story for an online news outlet. And that story was ultimately the deciding factor (I think) that led my boss to hire me as a content creator for Nolisoli back in 2020.
At 24, I fucking did it. I landed the dream magazine job at the company I looked up to and respected my entire life. It was the pandemic and people were dying, sure, but it gave me the sense of purpose I would have lost my mind without.
Earlier this week, I was reminiscing with my managing editor, Pauline Miranda, about my time here. She giggled at the fact that I was a workaholic that would send her emails about pitches and stories at 3 a.m. Back then, she’d gently admonish me for working way past hours and told me to relax.
I reminded her that a few months later, it would be the two of us keeping each other company during the witching hours. At first sending random work ideas, and then sending memes and virtually holding each other’s hands when things got a little too hard.
“This was love,” I told her.
“I wanted to prove that I belonged so bad. Because I really wanted this.”
Shoes were dropping, but we were always bumpin’ that
Another thing I did at 24 was constantly wait for the other shoe to drop. The time I’ve spent here was fun, but it was also filled with anxiety, impostor syndrome, and an indescribably palpable sense of dread because I couldn’t possibly be this happy and have everything this early.
It wouldn’t be the whole truth to say I’ve spent the whole four years working this job. I’ve already been separated from this job twice prior to this (out of circumstances unrelated to my performance). And each time, I’d find a way to claw myself back to where I’d been.
My last comeback run was thanks to a hiring post I saw on our company’s social media, which prompted me to immediately send a message to our HR manager. He was a kind and understanding man with a high tolerance for my level of insanity.
A screenshot of the posting found its way into his WhatsApp inbox followed by a GIF of Bea Alonzo from “One More Chance.” It was the scene where she’d tearfully beg John Lloyd Cruz, “Sana ako na lang! Ako na lang ulit!”
And that message led to two more years of disgustingly early mornings, horrifically late nights, disaster upon disaster at different events, and the most backbreaking, mentally exhausting work I’ve ever had to do.
Be that as it may—a phrase I tend to associate with our associate editor and fellow Brat Christian San Jose—it was some of the best days of my life.
Ask any seasoned publishing professional and they’ll tell you it’s the most godawful work they’ve ever subjected themselves to. They’ll wax poetic about how it will never give even close to what you put in and they look forward to the day they’ll retire for good. But in the same breath, they’ll also tell you that they can’t see themselves anywhere else.
To me, even the toughest days were the best days ever. The shoot could go four hours overtime with no end in sight, or I’d be stranded at an event late enough to qualify as morning, but I would still feel in my heart that this was the work I was meant for.
Was it enough?
Then there were the perks. Trips, free meals at the most esteemed restaurants, free designer items that our ex-boss would raffle off because she had a surplus, and of course, working with some of the craziest and crazy talented group of people I’d ever had the pleasure of meeting.
In an ideal world, things would have balanced each other out. The perks would have at least matched all the sacrifices I’ve had to make to keep going. I would have climbed the ladder, click-clacked my stilettos into that editors meeting as someone in a position to call shots, and kept going until I developed arthritis.
But alas, it was not enough.
Growing up means priorities change. No matter how much I lived, breathed, ate, and slept my job, other responsibilities take precedence over the dream. And the dream was also running on borrowed time. It takes a certain type of privilege (yes, the financial one I was lucky to have) to keep it going. But now, time’s up. It was a difficult, tearful, and long-drawn out goodbye, but it’s still goodbye.
It’s also a goodbye filled with fear.
Fear that I made a mistake in leaving, fear about what I’ll do next, and fear that I’ll never love and be great at something as much as this.
I’m so scared that one day I’ll look back at this whole experience and blame myself. I’d think that I just wasn’t strong, talented, or determined enough. I put my (literal at times) blood, sweat, and tears into the job I loved so indescribably and so deeply, but I just couldn’t hack it.
No matter how much our senior editorial manager Eric Salta would rightfully remind me that it’s just a job, I’ve woven so much of my identity into the work that I’ve done.
Which brings us to the multi-billion dollar question: What now?
What happens when “the dream” dies?
The end of this story is sadly anti-climactic. Instead of the tearful final frames I expected when I walk away from my desk one final time, I am working alone at home. Due to unforeseen circumstances, there is no loud celebration to mark my last working day filled with nostalgic laughter and too much dancing.
Well not yet, at least.
The end of this story also includes an apology, confession, and a clarification.
I’m sorry, I lied. The dream isn’t actually really dead. Because as corny as it sounds, dreams don’t die.
I’m quitting publishing full time, but that doesn’t mean I won’t keep writing. I won’t be working with my favorite people anymore, but that doesn’t mean we’ll stop being friends. I’ll probably end up at a job that I won’t love as much, but that’s just life.
The law of conservation of energy comes to mind when I say this. “Energy can neither be created nor destroyed—only converted from one form of energy to another.”
Another confession: The dream as it is has died. But the dream can always take another shape.
And forgive me for saying this, but the dream will also live on in my heart. It’ll live on in the shoots we slaved over, the meals I’ve eaten, the people I’ve interviewed, and the deranged DMs I’ve exchanged with my teammates at all hours of the day.
So all that’s left now is gratitude. I am grateful to everyone I worked with; everyone who believed in me, supported me, taught me, and read all about my weird hyperfixations and hot takes.
This hopefully isn’t the last thing I write that’ll see the light of day. All the love and energy I have for the craft still needs somewhere to go. Best believe I’m a yapper to my core, so no, I will never shut up.
And so the dream lives on.