The Myth of the Dream Job: What If Your Purpose Isn’t a Paycheck? A personal reckoning with burnout, sacred work, and redefining success on my own terms.

It seemed I was living the dream, seeing clients as a professional counselor, helping them create the life of their dreams. But the sad truth was as I listened to myself encourage them to follow their deep soul longings, I could feel my own soul slowly dying.

From the time I was a little kid, I wanted to be a writer. I even went to these dorky young writers’ conferences (I mean—I am a dork, and I loved those conferences).

My favorite class in high school was a journal writing class. As a child raised in a super dysfunctional home, the solace of a page was a lifeline.

When it was time to go to college, I wanted to study English Literature or Philosophy. My parents thought those topics weren’t practical enough and wouldn’t land me a job.

So I got a degree in Journalism with an emphasis in Public Relations (again—because my parents thought it was practical).

I’ve always been an empath and intrigued by humanity, so naturally I picked a PR internship at a Youth and Family Services Agency—where I wrote about all the good things people were doing in the community. I longed to be one of them.

My supervisor got me a role as a Residential Counselor with at-risk teenage boys in a transitional living shelter. I remember her telling my new supervisor to make sure I had opportunities to write because she said I was talented. I didn’t get those opportunities—other than documentation.

And for the next 20+ years, I longed in my soul to be a writer. But the thought of pivoting was overwhelming. So to save my soul, I started blogging in 2007. My therapist at the time told me I needed to leave my helping job to write because writing was where I was happiest.

But that was almost 20 years ago—and up until now, the pivot hasn’t happened. Yet writing has still been my lifeline through everything: journaling, blogging, dreaming, scheming.

Over time, I started to realize that sacred work isn’t only about what you do to get paid—it’s about your whole life.

My life is my sacred work.

It’s how I care for my nervous system. It’s how I slow down enough to feel the rhythm of the seasons and honor my energy accordingly. It’s the tenderness I offer myself on days when I feel like a failure because I don’t have a 401k or a set salary. It’s the truth I tell, even when it terrifies me.

I spent decades working in roles that made sense on paper—but always came with the whisper, “This isn’t it.” Not because the work wasn’t meaningful. But because it didn’t let me bring my full self to the table. It demanded output, performance, and results—but didn’t leave space for intuition, creativity, or wonder.

At some point, I had to ask myself: what if the real dream isn’t a job at all? What if the purpose isn’t tied to productivity, but to presence?

What if being a writer—my true calling all along—was never about being published, but about telling the truth as a way of staying alive?

For years, I tried to squeeze myself into systems that said worth = paycheck. That said you can only call yourself a writer if someone’s paying you. That said you need credentials and accolades to matter.

But I’ve come to realize: that’s capitalist bullshit. My worth isn’t determined by income. My sacred work can’t always be monetized—and it shouldn’t have to be.

The dream job didn’t save me. Writing did.

And if you’re feeling that tug—that ache to pivot, to create, to follow something illogical and holy—maybe it’s not a crisis. Maybe it’s a call.

Your purpose doesn’t have to be profitable to be real.

I think we forget that sometimes. Especially in a world that rewards productivity over presence and visibility over truth. We’re told to “build a brand,” “monetize our passions,” and “turn hobbies into side hustles.”

But what if some things are too sacred to be sold?

What if your soul-led work isn’t meant to scale?

What if the most revolutionary thing you could do is tend to what lights you up—not because it will make you money, but because it will make you whole?

I’m not saying don’t get paid. I still want security. I still want to contribute. But I no longer believe that my value hinges on whether I’ve “made it” in the traditional sense. That dream job I chased? It never existed. Not really. It was a projection, a promise that if I worked hard enough, cared deeply enough, and followed the rules, I’d arrive at worthiness.

I don’t need to arrive. I’m already here.

Writing—whether in the margins of a journal, the backend of a blog, or now in this portfolio—isn’t my career plan. It’s my lifeline. It’s the throughline that has held me in my darkest hours and whispered, keep going.

It’s how I remember who I am. It’s how I reclaim my voice. It’s how I turn my lived experience into something that might help someone else feel less alone.

I didn’t get here by climbing a ladder. I got here by crawling through the wreckage of burnout, identity collapse, and spiritual disillusionment.

And still—I write.

Not because it pays. But because it saves me.

Because some of us weren’t meant to fit into careers.

Some of us were meant to create new rhythms, to live our questions out loud, and to let our sacred work speak for itself.

Even when no one’s buying it.
Especially then.