A cry from the unseen underbelly of our overachieving community

“So, what do you do for work?” is probably my least favourite question, not just because it implies that the next most important thing about an individual after their name is their occupation, but because it means I feel compelled to lie about my job on a first date. Again.

I’m sitting in a wine bar in Armadale, wondering if I’m going to have to split the bill with some new faceless corporate Jewish professional, who tells me about his latest non-fiction read (unsurprisingly, ‘Sapiens’ by Yuval Noah Harari). I rehearse what I might say.

I could tell him that I’m a support worker, or I could tell him the truth. I was a support worker and studied social work, until I quit the industry and the degree three years in, after nearly falling asleep on the Monash Freeway due to severe burnout.

I’ve been unemployed for eight months, trying to re-enter a recession job market in a new industry for which I’m unskilled and unqualified, and I'm so desperate not to be broke that I've ended up nannying again.

It's not ideal, at least it’s some cash I can use to fund the inordinate amount of Aldi brand chocolate I eat as I wallow in bed alone, stewing in the soup of my wasted potential.

Also, I moved back into my mum’s house.

Also, I’m 28.

I decide to tell him that I’m a support worker, figuring I’ll just come clean about my futile attempts at job hunting if we get to a second date. There is no second date, and I am once again reduced to a metaphysical crouton in the metaphysical soup of disappointment.

This was not the life I saw for myself.

Younger, hopeful me imagined a wall mosaicked with degrees, a high-paying and intellectually stimulating career, maybe a Nice Jewish Boyfriend.

But things, obviously, did not go according to The Plan, and now I’m on too many first dates with different fonts of the same type of guy, and all my friends are getting married, and all I can hear is “What do you do for work?” screaming back at me from the void.

I have obviously discussed this at length with my Nice Jewish Therapist. I’ve come to realise the source of my (entirely self-induced) agonising is incessantly comparing myself against the overachievers I am surrounded by in the Jewish community.

The Jewish Community Overachiever takes a road well-travelled: a Big Jewish School, a university degree, a full-time professional career and a Big Fat Jewish Wedding, all before turning 30.

This line of comparison is obviously unhelpful, if only for the fact it doesn’t take into account the various personal hurdles I’ve had to contend with along the way.

It also ignores the rest of the world, where the vast majority of the 28-year-old population are also still stumbling along blindly. Even Bridget Jones was 32 when she met Hugh Grant and Colin Firth! (She had a glamorous job and her own apartment, but you see my point.)

I think there’s a decent number of late 20-somethings in our community in similar situations, wilting away in their parents' homes, struggling in the job market, and feeling just as insecure and inadequate as I do. There’s a whole lot of us “unmet potential types” who are still trying to work it out.

I’ve been very hard on myself. “Would you ever judge me so harshly if I was unemployed and had to move back home?” my High Achieving best friend asks, as she nurses her six-month-old.

Of course I wouldn’t. Some people start things earlier, some people start things later, and some people who have taken the perceived “easy” route haven’t actually had it that easy at all. Judging myself and others for perceived success or failure helps nothing, and perpetually keeps me stuck in the soup.

Things happen at the right time, everyone moves at their own pace, and things will change — or at the very least, I have to hope they’ll change, or else I'll be funding Aldi's snack section indefinitely.

I’ve decided to make a concerted effort to stop asking people what they do for work. I’m not sure what question to replace it with, but maybe something not quite so reductive, something that doesn’t indicate their worth is based on how they make their money.

I really do hope to find employment soon, purely for the sake of being able to afford reactivating my pilates class membership, but I’m also doing my best not to be such a pressure cooker about taking a few backroads in pursuit of The Plan.

The J-Comm dream of a house and husband can wait. For now, I’m trying to “Trust The Process,” as the experts say, and appreciate my quieter accomplishments, those that don't come with a graduating certificate.

Maybe on my next date, I’ll dial back on the dramatics. Maybe I’ll just hold off on the subpar dates until I can answer that question without feeling insecure about my answer. Or maybe there is someone else who will find solace in knowing they aren’t the only benchwarmer at the Athletics Carnival of High Achievers. We can be broke together.