Optionality
I don’t know if I like my job, but I’ve been trying to take comfort in the fact that I show up for it.
Is that a ridiculous thing to say? I’m not sure. Just over two weeks into corporate America, I’m searching for ways to convince myself that I oh-so-desperately want to show up for work tomorrow — and it’s only Monday night.
Staring down the barrel of day twelve in office, I’m drained at the thought of the alarm going off tomorrow morning. It’s been hard to sit in a room full of people knowing that I am, by far, the least knowledgeable person in the room, all the while certain that bringing me up to speed is at the bottom of the team’s collective list of priorities. And, while I’ve only been taking on bite-sized tasks, it’s also been hard to take criticism for mistakes on the chin, knowing that this *probably* could have been prevented if anybody actually wanted to walk me through whatever the fuck I was supposed to be doing instead of having the agentic operational encyclopedia (read: Claude Code) make suggestions.
It hasn’t been pretty. Between moving on from the state school that felt like home for four years, setting up an apartment that started off empty enough to hear my voice bounce off the walls and back at me, and feeling like I’m the project that no one has enough time for at the office, I’m resigned to the fact that every day feels a little bit exhausting.
Get slmn hmd’s stories in your inbox
Join Medium for free to get updates from this writer.
And despite all those feelings — which, yes, do feel overwhelming at times — I’m going to show up for work tomorrow. I’ll pull on pants. I’ll button up a shirt. I’ll get in a car and I’ll drive to work.
Why? It’s not because I don’t have an option. No one is holding a gun to my head and forcing me to go.
So what, then? To learn? Inspiration could strike tomorrow, but to be honest, I’m beat. I was excited to learn on day one, less excited by day five, and now, if you asked me to tell you what I’ve learned I’d probably give you some bitter response about the chains of the forty hour work week.
Is it the salary? Maybe — yes, my wallet is bleeding bad from move-in expenses, but while I’m sure seeing the direct deposit hit the bank account is an absolutely wonderful feeling, I don’t even know what it feels like to be paid yet.
The prestige? Okay, yes, I, can’t get around this one — or, rather, I couldn’t. I did give a fuck about it leading up to, and possibly during, my internship — by now, though, the novelty of the position and the company have worn off faster than the Americano I’ve started to rely on to get me through the morning.
And yet, despite the fact that I can pick apart every possible reason that I could have to show up tomorrow morning, I’ll still be there. Bright and (not that) early. With the option to quit, and with no tangible motive that I can plausibly construct that doesn’t crumble under a bit of pressure, I’m still going to be there. Call it commitment, inertia, or something in between — the only thing that matters is that I’m going to be there. And the only reason that I can possibly think of is that despite it all, I want to be.
