I found myself in a job I didn’t particularly enjoy, all because I had a nagging feeling from the beginning of my relationship that I’d likely become the main provider in our household. (Seriously, I can’t stand the term “breadwinner”—and not just because I’m not a fan of gluten!) Every day, I clocked in, trading my time and dignity for a paycheck to cover rent, groceries, and bills. On that bright Spring morning filled with tears, I felt a pang of jealousy as I thought about how my partner, Sam, got to lounge at home, indulge his whims, and watch terrible cable shows. He was in the classic “figuring things out” phase of unemployment after his teaching gig in Pennsylvania had wrapped up, and he was contemplating whether to pursue another teaching position or start building bookcases for some extra cash.
We were parked in his double-parked truck in New York City—where alternate-side parking turns marital disputes into mobile debates—when I calmly asked him, “Would you take a job you despised just to get benefits for us?” His firm “No” must have unleashed a wave of disappointment on my face that startled him into tears.
It was a miserable morning (but hey, at least we dodged a parking ticket!) that turned out to be eye-opening. I realized I couldn’t just sit around waiting for him to land any job in any company so I could finally quit mine and begin my own “figuring things out” journey. Before long, what began as a favor to a friend to build a bookcase transitioned into him crafting cabinets for clients, thus launching his new career.
Fast forward a decade, and Sam’s income would be decent—if we lived anywhere but New York City. But this is where my career is rooted and his clientele has grown, and sadly, it doesn’t quite stretch far enough for a family of three to thrive. Consequently, every career move I make comes with the heavy burden of worrying about salary and benefits. (Just a side note: I haven’t met anyone who has gone freelance with a family and signed up for Obamacare and thought, “What a great deal!”) Most of the time, I manage to stay calm—Sam’s self-employment gives one of us the flexibility to handle school and childcare—but four times a year, I find myself in a funk about it.
It feels overwhelming—especially during those annual layoffs that seem to lurk around every corporate corner. I often ponder my friends whose partners are bankers or lawyers, wondering, “Why do they even bother working if they don’t have to?” If money and Blue Cross Blue Shield aren’t necessities, what’s the point? (I get that many find joy and purpose in their careers, but honestly, nothing beats the thought of watching an old-school episode of Law & Order at 11:30 a.m. on a Tuesday!)
Around the same time I wrestle with those thoughts, I can’t help but wonder if men felt this way in the past, back when women rarely worked outside the home. Did my dad feel suffocated by the hungry mouths—my mom and her four daughters—demanding his attention? (Eventually, my mom did join the workforce—working with my dad—mainly to fund her Horchow catalog obsession.) But my dad wasn’t juggling the daily grind of family life while also chasing a paycheck. I have to work for that paycheck, secure the benefits, and still manage all the details—scheduling parent-teacher conferences, ensuring our daughter sees the dentist, making sure she arrives at birthday parties with trendy $15 gifts in tow. (To be fair to Sam, our daughter is 5, and I can count on one hand how many times I’ve trimmed her nails. Breakfast? Rarely. Packing her lunch? Even less frequently.)
I do find solace in connecting with other women in the same boat as me—no matter where I work, there are always a few of us. We chat by our desks, dreaming of what life would be like if we married rich or, at the very least, someone with stellar benefits like those some non-profits offer. Inevitably, one of my fellow earners mentions going back to school or starting a side hustle (often involving crafting flowers or baking cupcakes). As for me, my dream gig is to join Sam in his woodshop, learning a practical skill and creating something real (and probably a bit splintery)—a job that doesn’t gnaw at my soul.