I handed in a job application at a sandwich shop last week. There was a giant Now Hiring sign taped to the front window, so I walked in and, to my surprise, they handed me a paper application. I filled it out, smiled, and returned it to them.
They never called me.
I tell myself it’s probably because I’m too old. Maybe it’s because I didn’t apply online, or because the kid behind the counter didn’t scan my info into the system. I don’t know. I only know that I was ready to make sandwiches for minimum wage, and nobody even wanted that from me.
I have a master’s degree in interdisciplinary arts and decades of experience, both personal and professional. I speak two languages. As if any of that matters.
I’ve been told all my life that I’m smart, and yet here I am, chronically underemployed, invisible in the job market, and applying anywhere I can — hardware stores, pet supply chains, and garden centers. No one writes back. No one calls.
“Please upload your résumé,” I’m told. I do and it disappears into the algorithmic abyss, and I never hear from a human being.
I don’t need a career. I need a paycheck. But the system seems to think I’m either aiming too low or not playing the game right, or worse, that I don’t exist at all.
This has been going on for years. I’ve rewritten my résumé more times than I can count, tried leaving off my degree, tried playing up my “people skills,” tried the QR codes and portals and ghost-job listings that don’t lead anywhere. Nothing works. Every rejection chips away at something I used to believe about myself. Something like worth.
At one point, I thought maybe I had undiagnosed ADHD. Or social anxiety. Or something that could explain the gap between what I know I can do and how the world seems to view me. But mostly, I return to one haunting possibility: Maybe I’m just clueless. Maybe I’ve been clueless for years, and everyone else knows it except me.
That is, hands down, my greatest fear — not failure, not poverty, not even loneliness: the idea that I might be fundamentally out of sync with the world, and not even aware of it.
Because here’s the truth that nobody likes to talk about: being educated, competent and willing to work is no guarantee that you’ll find work. Especially not in a system where hiring has become automated, impersonal and biased in a hundred tiny, invisible ways. Especially not in a country where being overqualified is treated like a liability, where aging disqualifies you from entry-level jobs, and where the tech used to “streamline” applications often ends up gatekeeping the people who need the job the most.
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I’m not homeless. I’m not addicted. I’m not mentally ill. I’ve never made more than $20,000 in a year, either. I’m somewhere in the gray area where you’re struggling but not visibly enough to qualify for help. The kind of person nobody builds policy for. The kind of person nobody notices when they fall through the cracks, because we don’t fit any of the typical narratives about success or failure.
I know work isn’t just about money. It’s also about rhythm, purpose and dignity. It gives your days structure and your brain something to do besides spiral into self-questioning. But when you’re perpetually locked out of even the most basic opportunities, the effect isn’t just economic. It’s existential.
I know I’m not the only one. There are millions of us — smart, willing, even desperate to work — stuck in the liminal space between unemployment and invisibility. Nearly half of all college graduates are underemployed, many for a decade or more. Résumés vanish into algorithmic black holes, and being “overqualified” is often treated like a red flag. Older applicants, especially women, are routinely overlooked. It’s not just me. It’s a quiet crisis, and it’s growing.
This piece may sound absurd to some people who believe success is tied to how hard a person tries, and failure indicates a flaw in someone’s character, an inherent lack of discipline, or an unwillingness to go all out for what you want.
But what if the reality of success or failure is not dependent on a person’s character but is simply the result of a person’s circumstances, which are, ultimately, rarely within one’s control?
Or what if the world has finally arrived in the digital age, and those of us still fumbling around in the world of history, philosophy, humanity and faith have become … obsolete?
I used to think people like me would be the ones shaping the future. Now I’m just trying to survive in it. I was trained to think critically, to lead, to imagine better systems. But I’m being overlooked by people — and AI — who aren’t capable of doing what I can do. They don’t realize they’re saying no to the very resources that could help us navigate the crises ahead.
And if I can’t do that, I just want a chance to be useful somehow.
I have so much to give.
I would make the best sandwiches anyone has ever tasted.
Karen D. Garman is a writer, artist, and educator whose work explores trauma, transformation, and the search for meaning in a fractured world. Her essays and hybrid narratives blend memoir, social critique, and poetic language. She writes frequently about addiction recovery, neurodivergence, ecological consciousness, and the edges of human connection. Karen is currently developing a contemporary art movement inspired by the Situationists and working on a hybrid literary novel.
This article originally appeared on HuffPost in September 2025.
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