“What on earth are you doing working as a hotel receptionist?”
The guest meant well. It was my fault for answering honestly. I was so caught off guard being asked about where I worked before the hotel that the truth tumbled out of my mouth before I considered how it would look.
I was a project manager for the federal government.
Keyword: was.
He caught my look of horror, as I realised my error. “Long story?”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
I needed a change, and I wanted to be an employee instead of a manager— those things were, and still are, true. I tell people these things and leave out the messy parts. The debilitating illness. The spiral from full time to part time to medical leave. The betrayal of women whose leadership I used to admire turning against me. The desperation to hold onto the position I was so lucky to have in my early twenties, and the reputation I had for being a kid genius in rooms full of people twice my age. But most people know better when I give them those technically-true answers. You don’t go from the public service to casual shifts in a hotel because you want to, and the question that inevitably pops into their heads isn’t I wonder what happened to make a hotel more preferable. It’s what did she do?
Even in interviews, it comes up. “So, why did you leave?”
“I wanted more time to focus on my writing career, and we were coming into a quiet period where we were being encouraged to reduce our hours,” I say, neither of which are lies.
I didn’t get that specific job, but at least they gave me an interview. I barely got any others, despite my decorated resume, because if they weren’t wondering whether I was a toxic piece of shit who got forced out of her old job, they were wondering whether I was an overqualified time waster who would jump ship when something better came along. In reality, I was getting heart palpitations whenever I opened my banking app, checking my emails constantly in the hope someone might want to give me a chance.
I’m not a bad person, as far as I’m concerned. I didn’t get sacked. I was sick, and now I’m better—more or less—and I need to pay bills like the rest of us. At least, this is what I tell myself whenever somebody who knew me before asks what I’m up to now, even if some days, when I ruminate, I find it hard to believe.
There’s no shame in working a hotel desk. My coworkers are some of the kindest and friendliest I’ve ever had, and I do get enjoyment out of the chaos of a busy Saturday night. But I always feel like I have to justify it to people— like my teacher, who stopped me in the street. “You should’ve gone to university with your incredible scores!”
Is it not enough to keep a roof over my head and not run my health into the ground? Do I really need debt and a shiny piece of paper to prove I haven’t wasted my intelligence?
Besides, now that I’m not stuck like a bug in the web of the government hierarchy, I have energy left over to enjoy the sunshine and put my thoughts on a page. Can’t that be worth something? It feels worth something to me. In fact, if happiness was an income, I’d say I’m richer than I’ve ever been.
There are days that I miss having a traditional career. Sometimes, I even catch myself saying we instead of they about my former employer, the itch of my former ambition getting under my skin. But I don’t miss it enough to go back. I don’t miss it enough to even consider it. I’m content as a hotel receptionist. There are far worse places to be.
Ruby Stevenson (she/her) is a young adult fiction author represented by Morgan Wilson at Belcastro Agency. When she isn’t writing rebellious chronically ill main characters, she explores her experiences as a chronically ill and disabled writer on her Instagram (@rubystevensonwriter).
Instagram: @rubystevensonwriter