You're not stuck, you're being built

Do you ever look back at one of those jobs—the ones that drained your spirit, paid you in stress and trauma with a side of lukewarm “team lunches”—and just marvel at the fact that you survived? Like… with your soul mostly intact, your sense of humor still sharp, and just enough dignity to say, “Yeah, I lived through that mess”?

Because I did that recently. I sat with a cup of coffee and accidentally fell into a full-blown flashback montage. It was like opening an emotional time capsule labeled “Survival Mode,” filled with unpaid overtime, passive-aggressive emails, and the faint scent of reheated breakroom lasagna.

There was the restaurant job—oh, the restaurant job. Where I was the host, server, cleaner, unofficial therapist, and part-time spider exterminator. One time the manager told me, “We’re like a family here,” which, in hindsight, was horrifyingly accurate. Dysfunctional, codependent, loud, and nobody ever cleaned up after themselves. Thanksgiving flashbacks, but with more grease traps.

Then there was the job in an “open office concept.” Translation: zero privacy, zero boundaries, and Chad from Sales breathing audibly beside me like he was trying to share his inner monologue through my pores. I once asked for a single day off to attend a friend’s wedding and was told, “You really need to think about how your absence will affect the team’s vibe.” Sir. I haven’t had a vibe since 2018. What exactly do you think I’m disrupting?

Oh, and we can’t forget the classic “coordinator” role that came with a mystery box of surprise responsibilities. Technically, I was managing calendars and budgets. Unofficially? I was the IT department, emotional support human, event planner, and sole operator of the cursed printer from 1992. I was paid in “great experience” and whatever cake was leftover from Brenda’s birthday.

At the time, each job felt like a cosmic prank. Like surely, this is the one that’s going to break me. But somehow, it didn’t.

I didn’t break. I bent, stretched, twisted like a yoga pose designed by corporate sadists—but I didn’t break.

Instead, I became professionally seasoned. Not bitter—just boldly marinated. A little crispy on the edges. But still here. Still moving. Still showing up with a résumé and a battle-worn smile.

And through all of it? God never left.

Even when I was sobbing quietly in the break room, wondering how a human being could be told to “smile more” during a performance review that happened less than 24 hours after I buried my grandmother. Even when I got laid off via an email—with my name misspelled. Even when I ate microwave dinners out of vending machines and cried in my car because I got passed over for the third time by someone who had literally fallen asleep in a meeting.

He was there. Not always loud. Not always in the way I expected. But steady. Present. Whispering, “Just wait. I’m not done.”

And now? I look back and laugh. Because those jobs didn’t define me. They refined me.

They gave me grit, resourcefulness, and enough absurd material to launch a one-person comedy tour called “You’re Doing Great, But…”

I survived toxic bosses who thought yelling was a leadership strategy. I survived coworkers who made group chats just to gossip about what kind of salad I brought for lunch. I survived the demon printer that jammed when Mercury was in retrograde and only obeyed offerings of paper clips and whispered threats.

I made it through crying in Target parking lots. Through psyching myself up in public bathroom mirrors. Through working holidays, weekends, and once—truly—a full shift after my car caught on fire. (True story. Two stars. Would not recommend.)

But through all of it… God was there. In the chaos. In the exhaustion. In the vending machine sadness and the calendar invite despair. Even when I thought He had logged off. Even when I thought He was out of office. He was there, moving pieces behind the scenes I couldn’t see.

So if you’re in one of those jobs right now—where the gratitude is thin, the hours are long, and the reward feels nonexistent—breathe.

You’re not stuck. You’re being built. You’re gathering stories. Strength. Wisdom. A sense of humor sharp enough to slice through any meeting invite titled “Quick Sync (But Not Really).”

And one day?

You’ll look back. You’ll laugh. And you’ll whisper, “I really made it out of that?”

You did.

Because God never left the chat.