The Noise Between Shifts

Survival mode will keep you alive. But it can’t keep you fulfilled.

I got my first retail job when I was sixteen. It was supposed to be temporary — a way to make some extra money, buy a few outfits, feel independent. Back then, it felt like freedom. My friends were spending weekends at the mall; I was behind the counter, clocking in, learning how to talk to adults, how to fake confidence, how to sell.

Retail was never the dream. It was the safety net. My “plan B.” The backup for when plan A — the creative one, the big one — took too long to work out. I told myself I was just passing through, but somehow, one summer job turned into years. The industry became a language I knew too well. I learned how to make people feel seen, how to read a room, how to survive off commission and charisma.

When I finally moved to New York, I told myself it would be different. The city was supposed to be my reset — the place where I’d finally step into the creative version of myself I’d been saving for later. But instead, New York became a faster, louder version of survival mode.

At first, I didn’t mind it. There’s a certain thrill in the hustle, especially when you’re young and ambitious. Everyone you meet is chasing something. Everyone has a side project, a dream, a brand they’re building after their shift. You convince yourself that exhaustion is proof of progress. You romanticize being “booked and busy.” You wear struggle like it’s style.

But after a while, survival stops feeling noble. It just feels heavy.

I started to notice how many of us were quietly trying to stay afloat — artists, dreamers, writers, stylists — all working retail by day and building something invisible by night. We’d talk about “one day” in the break room. One day, I’ll quit. One day, I’ll focus on my passion. One day, I’ll have time. But days turned into years, and “one day” kept moving further away.

I was working to pay rent, to keep my MetroCard refilled, to make sure I could afford brunch with friends and still buy groceries. But I wasn’t living. I was surviving beautifully — dressed well, always composed, but running on fumes.

Retail taught me resilience, but it also taught me how easy it is to get trapped by comfort. The steady paycheck, the employee discount, the illusion of stability — all of it convinces you that this is temporary, even when it’s becoming permanent. You start to measure success by survival: if the bills are paid and the lights are still on, then maybe that’s enough.

But it isn’t.

Some nights, I’d get home and sit in the quiet of my apartment, scrolling through old notes of ideas I hadn’t touched in years. Blog drafts, business concepts, story outlines. I’d tell myself I’d revisit them when things calmed down. But things never really calm down when you’re in survival mode. You’re always waiting for the next emergency, the next bill, the next chance to catch your breath.

It’s a strange kind of grief — realizing that the creative version of you has been waiting in the background, watching you prioritize survival over self-expression. You start to wonder how long you can keep postponing your purpose before it gives up on you.

But maybe that’s the thing about survival — it teaches you what you’re made of, even if you hate the lesson. It gives you grit, awareness, empathy. It shows you what kind of person you are when no one’s watching.

For years, I thought creativity needed freedom — space, time, luxury. But lately, I’ve started to see it differently. Maybe creativity doesn’t always bloom in peace. Maybe it grows in tension, in the cracks between your shifts and subway rides, in the moments when you refuse to let the noise drown you out.

I used to think I’d create when life finally slowed down. Now I know I have to create because it doesn’t.

Some of my best ideas have come to me while folding shirts, waiting for a customer, or walking home at midnight with sore feet and a racing mind. That’s when I hear my truest thoughts — the ones I’ve been too busy to listen to.

I still work. I still pay bills. I still plan. But I’m also learning that survival and creation don’t have to exist on opposite sides of the same coin. Maybe they can coexist — messy, imperfect, and human. Maybe the art isn’t what comes after survival, but what’s made possible by it.

I used to call retail my plan B. But now, I see it as the classroom that taught me how to adapt, how to connect, and how to create even when I’m tired. It forced me to see that the life I’m building won’t always come with perfect timing. Sometimes, you have to make room for the dream in the middle of the noise.

Maybe that’s what survival mode has been trying to teach me all along. Not how to live without art — but how to keep creating even when life feels like it’s closing in.

Because every time I choose to create, I remind myself that I’m not just surviving anymore.

I’m becoming.