The Fear of 5PM (and the Threat of the Weekend)

It's Monday. I just received what seems will be my last unemployment check — it's unclear if I will be able to re-certify — and the clock has hit 5PM for the 154th business day since my layoff. Tomorrow (or likely today, by the time this publishes) I will have hit 31 weeks without a steady income. I'm not alone, of course. Everywhere you turn you see a gofundme from another person who has been un-or-under-employed for far too long. Official recession or no, our economy has been cracking more and more with each passing year with specific industries still struggling to recover post-quarantine and taking even greater hits as the lie of AI's greater tomorrow wipes out job after job. Industries like entertainment — the one I fought for years to enter into full-time.

In some ways, I've been incredibly lucky throughout an abysmal 9 months. If you've seen me outside enjoying myself in any capacity, it was because I've managed to remain accredited with my guilds or because my friends were paying my way to be there. I literally owe my roommate and the rest of my friend group 9 months of bar tabs because when I tried to recluse the way I always do when there's something I cannot personally solve they all collectively said "the fuck you will" and dragged me out anyway.

The "fun stuff" has helped my mental state, without question. It's also something I would have gone without completely had my friends not stepped in an insisted otherwise. I am very good at being poor. But being very good at being poor stops mattering after an extended period of time because the money simply runs out.

9 months seems to be that limit for me. In that time, I haven't missed a payment on rent, my car, my phone or my debt. I even managed to hit some career milestones in the latter half of 2025, moderating the main stage at NYCC, being published in two print magazines, and more. Then the holidays hit, and everything dropped off a cliff.

In 2025, my lowest monthly revenue was $2K. I've made $1,700 in all of 2026. My revenue from publishing here is $102.52 a month. I live in one of the most expensive cities in the world.

Of course, I can hear the "just move" from all the way over here. But to where? I already live with a roommate. Because I was attacked at the beginning of the year, we've already moved into cheaper housing. I don't have the familial relationships that most have the ability to "fall back" on. It's just me. I'm lucky to have wonderful friends that I consider family, but the fact of the matter is that there is simply nowhere for me to go and, even if there were, I wouldn't have the funds to move twice in one year.

Late 2025 wasn't my first layoff, but this is the longest I've been unemployed by a considerable margin. It's also the first time I've been in the same situation as so many of my peers. There's an unspoken agreement when you're an editor — you take care of the people around you not just because it's the right thing to do, but also because you know one day the ax will fall on your head too. There are a lot of areas I can improve on in my career, but that's not one of them. I prided myself in always being a new home to folks if the budget was there. But that's the crux of it.

There is no budget left to be had.

It's because I'm not the only one in my situation that I write this, even if it may seem a little "woe is me." There are scores of journalists across verticals whose hearts fall when the clock hits 5PM PST. If it doesn't get them on the daily, it certainly hits on Fridays as we head into the now-dreaded weekend. Because after-hours and weekends mean there's no one there to get back to that email, to accept that pitch, to set up that interview, to extend that job offer...

Sure, nice plans with your friends help. After all, you get to spend time with your people, who you love and love you back. But underneath it all is the fact that you're not contributing, and that you're only there because of kindness that you're grateful for but cannot reciprocate in the same way. I'm a firm believer that it all comes out in the wash. I also know that I have been trapped in this spin cycle for far too long, and that I am not alone in how that makes me feel.

All that's left at 5PM is us, our thoughts, and our cursors. If you believe in the starving, depressed artists trope, you assume this is a boon. If you've been a starving, depressed (or in my case, anxious) artist, you know that's bullshit.

"No one wants to work these days?" Everywhere I turn I see talented people fighting to sell their labor. And lest you think we're all stuck in pipe dreams looking to remain in our "fluffy" jobs (that pay us little to nothing, by the way), know that I have 15 years of account management and logistics experience that has meant nothing in any of my applications outside of the industry. There are simply no jobs. Every day we wake up to a new article outlining how the job forecast was wrong or how all the jobs being posted are fake. And every day we have to wake up and keep applying to them anyway because there is simply no other option.

In the meantime, thousands of us type away at our little newsletters, fighting for the same 3 subscribers that can't find us because discoverability has become impossible and our digital infrastructure is crumbling because all of the worst people have the most money. We write our desperation LinkedIn posts because Twitter is dead and its corpse is a Nazi, bsky is all politics, and Meta has always despised us; we tweak our resume for the fifth time and write cover letter after cover letter; we pitch, warm and cold, hoping anything will stick; we treat each assignment like it could be our last.

And 5PM comes again. And again, and again, and again. The cursor waits, the coffee cup runs empty, the bank account already was so, and we wake up and do it all over again tomorrow because there is simply no other option but to try.

Keep trying.