Apparently, Lunch Is a Privilege, Not a Part of My Workday

Today, my breaking point didn't just arrive. It clocked in early, put on an apron, and apparently decided it was staying until closing.

It's 2:00 p.m. We finish at 3:30, and I'm finally getting what is generously referred to as a lunch break. How exciting! Except there's one tiny logistical issue: the kitchen has already been shut down, dinner preparations are underway, and there's essentially nothing left for me to eat.

So here I am, working in a restaurant, surrounded by food, preparing food, serving food, and somehow living like a Victorian orphan waiting for someone to throw me a crust of bread.

You really couldn't write this comedy any better.

Apparently, the concept of feeding the employees is a complicated operational challenge. Especially when you're not part of the preferred social circle, the family-and-friends network, or the unofficial workplace aristocracy.

Because let's be honest, favoritism and nepotism have a funny way of making themselves visible. Some people seem to have an entire support system operating behind the scenes, while others are apparently expected to function through sheer willpower, caffeine, and the occasional emotional breakdown in the walk-in cooler.

I don't have a hierarchy of people looking out for me, rearranging responsibilities, or making sure I have an opportunity to eat. I don't have someone conveniently stepping in to lighten my workload. I just have my responsibilities, my schedule, and an increasingly impressive ability to work myself into the ground.

And the irony? I work in a hospital restaurant environment. You would think that somewhere between feeding patients, staff, and visitors, the establishment might remember that the employees are also human beings who require food to remain operational.

But apparently that's asking for premium service.

At this point, I'm going to have to start preparing my own meals again just to guarantee that I actually eat during a shift. Imagine having to bring your own food to a restaurant because working there doesn't provide you with a realistic opportunity to have a meal.

The employee experience is truly Michelin-starred.

Then I get to go home hungry, exhausted, irritated, and mentally checked out, only to wake up and repeat the entire performance the following day.

And somewhere in the middle of all this, I'm supposed to maintain a positive attitude, demonstrate professionalism, show initiative, and continue being grateful for the opportunity.

Grateful for what, exactly? The privilege of watching dinner service come together while my own lunch disappears into the sunset?

I came into this position to build my professional experience, develop my skills, and create opportunities for the next stage of my career. The plan was to use this experience as a stepping stone, not to become permanently stationed in a cycle of overwork, workplace politics, and culinary starvation.

I didn't come here to audition for the role of the hospital's most reliable underfed employee.

And perhaps that's the biggest realization I've had lately: there's a difference between a job challenging you professionally and a job slowly draining your enthusiasm, patience, and willingness to participate in another working day.

I'm not afraid of hard work. I'm not afraid of being busy. I'm not afraid of responsibility.

But I am increasingly unwilling to accept an environment where basic consideration feels like a special favor, where workplace favoritism is difficult to ignore, and where the people who consistently carry the workload are somehow the ones expected to carry even more.

At some point, you have to recognize when you're building experience and when you're simply being convenient for everyone else.

I think I've reached that point.

The next chapter needs to involve professional growth, better opportunities, and an environment where I don't have to negotiate with the universe just to eat a sandwich.

Because if I wanted to go hungry, work myself into exhaustion, and feel unappreciated, I could accomplish all three without putting on a uniform.

Consider this my notice to myself: the experience has been gained, the lesson has been learned, and the appetite for this particular circus has officially disappeared.