I don't dream of labor

What's the point of career goals?

We’re trained from an early age to believe that setting professional goals is key to a successful future. Children are asked first and foremost what they want to be when they grow up; if their response is “garbage truck driver,” they’re told to dream bigger, dream richer.

Never mind that working for a municipal sanitation department is actually a pretty decent gig (often backed by a strong union, supported by a good salary and benefits, and with the potential to retire at a reasonable age). No, a person should aspire to be a doctor or a lawyer, a bonds trader, a celebrity. As it goes with American exceptionalism, you are only as big as your dreams and your dreams are only worth the amount of money they can garner. This, of course, denies most people’s realities where some aspirations are pretty much impossible. 

But it’s that “pretty much” that gets exploited: If one person was able to defy the odds, then why can’t you? It must be that you didn’t work as hard, didn’t believe in yourself enough. It’s this kind of thinking that puts all the onus on the individual instead of the systems that fail them, like they’re designed to do.

For the first time that I can remember, I don’t have goals beyond thinking it would be nice to be content, though I am not entirely sure what even that means to me. Having kids? At 33, I’m more ambivalent than ever! Buying a house? Haha, okay, but seems increasingly unlikely! What I do know, however, is that my blurry idea of contentment doesn’t include work or…any career aspirations, really. When I was younger I wanted to be an actor (I know, I know), then a TV writer, then a novelist. Now? I’ve realized that the most rewarding career goal I can set for myself is to get by doing as little as possible. This, to me, is also far more noble than the fetishization of productivity — the greatest trick capitalism ever pulled — which deceives us into making money, primarily for other people who already have a lot of it.

This week, the company where I work full-time is laying off hardworking employees to make up for the financial blow dealt by COVID-19 and I, along with everyone else on staff, have been on a lot of Zoom conference calls with the C-suite. From their vacation homes, they tell us how unavoidable and unfortunate this all is. Sometimes, they even cry, which hey, is at least worth a laugh. Similar scenes are occurring across media and across industries, and only in the better scenarios are these workers given anything by way of severance and respect. Working hard isn’t saving anyone. Everyone beneath a certain salary floor is expendable. It’s all a farce and, for now, I’m going to do my best to participate in it as little as possible.

Easier said than done, I know. We’re living in a scary fractured time that is and will continue to push us to our limits and beyond. Sometimes I comfort myself with the reminder of the incredible things can grow from chaos but, on the other hand, what an annoying act of bargaining — like celebrating being stabbed because the doctor did such a beautiful and hereto unseen job of stitching the wound. 

If that’s what there is to celebrate, so be it. My former teacher Nick Lantz wrote a book of poetry called How to Dance as the Roof Caves In; I’ve never gotten over how much I love the title, even turning it into a mantra for when times are bad. There are so many things we can’t control, but we can at least choose how to channel our energies. These days, I try to channel mine towards joy — joy for myself, my loved ones, and anyone else in need of it. It’s not so much a goal, career or otherwise, but it is a free state of being that exists outside of professional ambition.

Decoupling a satisfying life from ambition is as terrifying as it is exciting. Sometimes I feel so untethered that I look at housing listings until my phone runs out of battery, hoping to find something somewhere (the Catskills, Los Angeles, New Orleans, the middle of Montana, Denmark) that feels like a sign of where to go, a direction — literal and figurative — to head in. The answer remains infuriatingly vague.