When I was young, I chased a dream instead of a paycheck. Teaching English lit, coaxing teenagers through Shakespeare, watching their eyes light up with an “a-ha” moment—that was my jackpot, not a fat salary. I didn’t care that my bank account stayed lean; back then, a studio apartment cost me $400 a month, gas hovered at $1.50 a gallon, and eggs were pocket change. The world wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t feel rigged against dreamers. Now, as my two sons stand on the cusp of their own careers, college tuition bills piling up beside me, I’m staring at a different reality—one where passion feels like a privilege they can’t afford.
My eldest mentioned journalism the other day, a spark in his voice I hadn’t heard since he was a kid scribbling stories. I smiled, then froze. Newsrooms are shrinking, AI is churning out articles, and layoffs hit like clockwork. My youngest is eyeing tech, but even that golden goose is laying fewer eggs—coding jobs aren’t the sure bet they were a decade ago. “Find something you love that’s AI-proof, pays well, and comes with a 401(k),” I want to say, but it sounds like I’m asking them to hunt a mythical beast. The economy I navigated as a 20-something feels like a faded postcard next to the one they’re inheriting.
Back in my day, choosing joy over cash didn’t mean starving. I rented that cheap studio, drove a beat-up hatchback, and still had enough for a coffee with friends. Today, rent in our town averages $2,000, gas is pushing $4, and eggs? Don’t get me started. My teacher’s salary—never lavish—now barely covers basics, let alone supports my boys through school. I’ve loved my career, the chaos of the classroom, the quiet victories of a student’s breakthrough. But when I see my sons weighing their futures, I wonder if I’ve sold them a fairy tale about following your heart.
It’s not just the dollars. The world’s louder now—social media screaming doom, climate crises looming, job markets twisting with every tech leap. My husband’s gig pays better, but it’s not his passion—he grinds it out, satisfied enough. Friends in corporate gigs tell me they’ve found balance, and decent checks without soul-crushing days. Maybe that’s the new gospel I should preach: pick a path that keeps the lights on and doesn’t kill your spirit. Passion can live outside the 9-to-5—volunteering, freelancing, and a weekend hustle. But when college debt and rent are your gatekeepers, survival trumps sparkle.
I grew up haunting the town library, dreaming big—cancer cures, global scoops, pirouettes on stage. Teaching became my landing spot after a dozen college major switches, a master’s degree my compass. It’s been a life of purpose, not regret. Yet as my sons map their own roads, I’m torn. I want them to feel the rush I did after a great class, not the dread of Sunday nights. I want them to build something meaningful, not just chase bonuses. But I also want them housed, fed, and free to give back without breaking. The world’s changed—purpose still matters, but the price tag’s steeper. I hope they find a way to thread that needle, to make a living and still feel alive.