Because the best parts of who we are might be the things we’ll never get paid for.
The last time someone asked me, “So, what do you do for work?” I felt… gross? Not just mildly annoyed, but a visceral, whole-body recoil. I probably made a face and immediately stifled it before responding. For most of my life, I thought of that question as harmless small talk, but now it makes me bristle. Why? Because in American society, we’ve decided that who you are is the same as what you do for money. Your self-worth, your identity, and your place in the social hierarchy are all filtered through your profession.
It’s not a neutral question. It’s shorthand for class, status, ambition. Growing up in the NYC area, I realized that “what do you do?” wasn’t usually about genuine curiosity. It was about sorting. Sometimes even before you knew someone’s name, you knew whether they were “worth your time.” And I went along with it, because that’s what everyone else did.
But the older I get, the more it feels like a trap. When someone asks me now, I hear the unspoken rule: if it doesn’t make money, it doesn’t matter.
Take hobbies. The moment you start one, someone will ask if you’re going to monetize it. Make mugs and bowls? “Ooh, are you going to sell them on Etsy?” Learn to paint? “Have you thought about taking commissions?” Bake sourdough? “You should start a bakery!” As if joy alone isn’t enough of a reason to do something. As if the only legitimate purpose of creativity is commerce. As if the goal of creation is to start a side hustle. Admittedly, I’ve fallen into that trap myself, wondering if I should sell the little trinket dishes I make at the studio. But I know that once something fun becomes work, it becomes… well, work.
Which is why it felt especially interesting when that dreaded question came up at the pottery studio. The one place I feel free to create without worrying about work. I know this time the person probably meant it sincerely, but still, it made me twinge.
I’ve noticed how much this obsession with productivity feels uniquely American. Maybe even more concentrated on the coasts. When we first moved to Denver, we sat at the bar of a burger joint, and the bartender asked, “What do you do?” Being East Coasters, we rattled off our jobs. He laughed: “No, like, do you ski? Mountain bike? What do you DO?” That moment really shifted my perspective and made me realize there are other ways to answer that question.
And yet, I still default to the job title answer. Maybe that’s why I felt especially uncomfortable this time: I don’t really have a full-time profession at the moment. I certainly no longer want to be identified as only what I do for work. And that’s why I didn’t know how to answer in the “right” way, the way that is expected.
But maybe there’s a better way altogether. Why reduce someone to their LinkedIn headline (side note: ugh, LinkedIn, what a necessary evil. EVIL.)? Why flatten entire lives into a single line on a business card?
There are richer questions:
- What’s been bringing you joy lately? (Having an umbrella in the backyard so I can enjoy being outside without burning to a crisp)
- What have you learned lately / what are you learning right now? (I learned to drive a manual transmission / I’m learning about Hawaiian history while watching “Chief of War”)
- What’s something you’re looking forward to? (Going to two!! concerts at Red Rocks next week)
I’d rather answer any of those. I’d rather ask any of those. Because they tell me so much more than “I’m a software engineer” or “I work in finance.”
I don’t want to be asked what I do for work anymore.
Because the best parts of who we are might be the things we’ll never get paid for. (But, like, if you want to pay me for my writing or drawing or pottery, I wouldn’t say no. A girl’s got bills to pay.)
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