Freelance Writing is a Lonely Profession

Have you ever felt ungrateful for feeling down? I have, and I don’t know why. I’m not broke — that broke. I am not homeless. I can order Doordash on a semi-regular basis. I am not terminally ill. My children are happy and healthy, and I have a relatively good life.

Why can’t I shake this, sadness? I can’t place it.

Let me start from the beginning. I have worked 1, or 3, full-time jobs since I was 16 years old. I am 37. I quit my full-time job as a 911 operator in October of last year because I was moving From Atlanta to Houston.

I thought that it would be easy to transition from traditional employment to freelance. I had my traditional job for about 6.5 years. On top of that, I had 1 million side hustles. I did a lot of ripping and running with my family, and I had a second part-time job.

Long story short, my days never belonged to me. I was either yelling CPR instructions, driving my little brother to work at 5 am, doing Uber at 2 am or running 15 minutes late to my other dispatch job.

I didn’t have time to plan what I would actually do if given the chance to be a writer full time. And now that I have this opportunity, thanks in part to my wonderful fiancé, I’m terrified I’ll fail. I don’t know how to set my own schedule. It is daunting trying to find dedicated time to write. And I have imposter syndrome.

I know that this mentality is systemic. When I told a family member as a child that I wanted to be a writer, they laughed and flat out told me that I would be broke. (I still want to punch him in the face for that.)

I don’t know why I let the family crack head affect me so much, but I still hear that today. I don’t know what to do with myself half of the time. The other half, I spend second-guessing myself.

I can’t shake this funk. I thought that it was just because I moved to a new state after being in my hometown my whole life. I thought that it was because I am adjusting to my newfound “freedom”.

Hell, I even thought I was finally losing my mind because of the pandemic.

I am beginning to realize that I am afraid that the aforementioned family member will turn out to be right. But you know what, I am going to write anyway.

I have worked with a fever, dealt with sexist bosses, and traversed taking 3 buses and 2 trains in sketchy neighborhoods all for jobs I hated. I finally get what I always thought that I wanted, and it is a bit — anti-climactic.

I can’t deal. I feel like an ungrateful, entitled child. I think that I am so used to being tired, overworked, and underpaid that I can’t deal with my new life. I mean, I have only been freelancing full-time for 9 months.

However, during those 9 months, I packed up and moved 4 states away. I had to deal with Texas freezing over. I had to furnish and arrange my new apartment while making sure my kids graduated with good grades.

I have only been able to dedicate the needed amount of time to my writing since March.

I was writing this with the hopes that I am not alone. Have any of you felt like you didn’t deserve where you are? Have you ever had a sadness that you couldn’t shake? Do you ever get family members thinking that your writing isn’t a “real job”? How do you move past that?

I still don’t have answers. Thank you for reading this. Writing this helped a bit. I look forward to your comments.