Royal Photographic Society 166th International Photography Exhibition at Saatchi Gallery (August, 2025)
The best part of being unemployed is having a film journal. That was the highlight for me at least. From late spring this year until the start of autumn I was not in education, employment, or training. Simply put, I was jobless. The decision to depart from my employment was not a decision I took lightly, as I am characteristically not impulsive nor rash in my decision making. I fought the idea for months, resigning it to a fantasy shared by my fellow colleagues that felt the same. We operated on a devotion to deliverance to get us through each of those taxing nine hours and the shifts that loomed before us. After a series of events my tolerance for the job rapidly declined, replaced instead by a question that I could no longer shake: why must I endure this?
It is of course wholly unadvisable and largely unwise to leave a job before getting a replacement, particularly in the precarious economic landscape we find ourselves. I know this, I’m not without reason. This alone was the motivating thought that kept me in my position, the itch to leave further rebuffed by rejection emails that always contained the word ‘unsuccessful’. Nonetheless, I persisted on LinkedIn. I knew once I reached the decision to leave and promised this to myself, I would stick to it. And stick to it I did.
Once my one month notice was handed in and I shared the news with my inner circle, they each rejoiced. Each of them had for a stretch of time, questioned my reasoning for staying there. April 17th, also my Nan’s birthday, was my freedom day. It was a half shift, but a stock delivery day, nonetheless. When I finished with unpacking and found myself on the shop floor, a co-worker who was fairly new said no one would believe it was my last day because I looked so happy. Admittedly, I was smiling from ear to ear. Earlier, I had taken a selfie behind a packed delivery trolley, arm in the air, later posting it on my close friends story captioned, ‘I am finally free from the shackles of retail’.
When my shift had finished and I gathered my things, I abruptly acknowledged that it would be my last time behind the shop counter, where I had stood and served for nearly three years. It would be the last time sliding the bolt of the gate from the inside to exit, never to enter again. This sudden recognition made it feel all that final, but my eagerness to leave suppressed any saddening sentimentality from persisting.
On the evening of Easter Sunday, four days after my departure from employment, I journeyed to Loughborough Junction to celebrate a friends Mum’s 50th birthday. When family friends asked what it was I did, the most popular presenting question whenever you are amongst a large group of strangers, I told them I had, as of Thursday, left my job. Each confession was met was with joy. I must say it was not the prevailing emotion I was expecting. I’d put my bets on a reaction resembling condolence. They seemed excited for me, I was young with my whole professional life ahead of me, opportunities a-knocking. I seemed to know what it was I wanted to do, I dedicated myself to learning. I had a passion, and that was the main thing.
It appeared that the cohort of adults in their late 40s to early 50s were somewhat envious of my position. How lucky to be able to leave when things get intolerable, when the unpleasant persists. When I had told my Dad I was contending with the idea of leaving (though mentally I had already decided this, because I had actually been thinking about it for weeks, months, prior), he was all ears. “This is most likely the one time in your life you will be able to do this, you don’t have rent to pay, a car to finance, kids to feed”. He was in agreeance. He also knew I was sensible and so to take such a risk meant my conditions of employment were all that bad.
I had somewhat of the same reaction a month later when I went to a friend of a friends birthday in May. Of course, the question of what it is I do repeatedly came up, this time amongst a crowd of people my own age up to their 30s. The conversations naturally flowed into rigorous discussion about the difficulties of obtaining a dream career.
Some, like me had graduated from postgraduate degrees and were still trying to break into academia. Others had studied music and were either in service based jobs to keep them going between gigs or had pivoted completely to jobs within public service, putting the creative emblems that fuelled them on the back burner.
The acknowledgement of shared feelings, amongst a sea of people I didn’t know, was soothing. Often times it felt as though I was one of few in my struggles of landing a job that aligned with my career goals, that stimulated my mind, that excited me. It seemed the elusive graduate, salaried job was merely out of reach for me.
A ridiculous thought I know, given that it seems the majority of us 20-somethings are altogether dispirited with the job market, and as recent statistics suggest, a larger portion of graduates are unemployed compared to the previous cohort. Perhaps it is the human condition to always feel as though we go through suffering uniquely alone. Then we are proven repeatedly, with just a little conversation, this is absolutely not the case.
There was a buzz around my freshly free status, it evoked excitement from the listening party. There were mentions of a ‘new journey’ I was now inexplicably embarking on. There were also of course the pacifying remarks to keep one from spiralling: ‘I mean, something has to come back’ and ‘you’ll get something, you have to!’
The early days were spent enjoying my freedom. A month in I also got a kitten which took (and continues to take) up a lot of my time. It was an idea mentioned in passing by my mum the month before as a colleague of hers had a litter. Quite abruptly I found myself rushing home, kitten formula in tow, having been told the news he was ready to be dropped off.
Suddenly, I had this tiny bundle of love to look after, who kept me up at night and bit my toes during the waking day. When I recounted tales of scary milk-belly vomiting and his general precociousness that woke me up every few hours, a friend joked that I wasn’t unemployed, I was in fact on maternity leave.
Financially things started off fine. I got my last full paycheck the week I left, and then a meagre final paycheck of accrued holiday pay and a handful of shifts during May. After that, it was time to rely on my savings. I went in with the mentality of not demolishing said savings as well as acknowledging my financial responsibilities (two cats to keep healthy and fed, help with the household) which persisted, job or no job.
Pizza allowances have to be made (Rudy’s)
As there was no end goal in sight (by that I mean, no job offers), I had to make sure I wasn’t silly with spending, when my joblessness could last far longer than I’d originally anticipated, which was of course, the minimum amount of time possible. Leaving work did mean a spring trip to Paris was regrettably off the cards. Once I handed in my noticed however, I reconciled with the fact that, for the greater good, I had to forsake a few days of la vie Parisienne.
Later, Vinted sales would help fund frivolities and little luxuries, such as dinner with friends, an occasional second-hand book haul (the best), and of course, the (vital) procurement of garments. Some nights out were off the cards as they just weren’t financially viable, but that was okay. There is also always the option of buying soft when you’re at a pub, a whole night of drinking will cost you no more than £6-7. An inebriated buzz is naturally not included, but there’s always the conviviality of a place.
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Through unemployment, I felt I had a changing, unique relationship with the passage of time. Seasons seemed to stay for much longer. Sunny days felt constant at the beginning, as blazing, sunshine-filled spring morphed into summer, an even hotter configuration of the former. Once summer departed and autumn reared its fresh head of possibilities, each evening I felt the temperature dip, a degree at a time.
I noticed each changing colour of leaf on the deciduous trees that decorate my walk home. They seemed to transform into a kaleidoscope of burgundy, brown, and burnt orange much slower than I was able to recount in prior years. This familiar yearly process appeared to operate in slow motion, lingering right before me.
Things felt as though they had decelerated. Rather, I simply had ample time and space to notice. Stretched out days, turning leaves, darkening evenings, persisted around me year after year, it was nothing new. What was novel was my newfound surplus of time.
RPS 166th International Photography Exhibition at Saatchi Gallery (August, 2025)
With this excess of time, I’d often peruse through galleries or walk down unfamiliar roads in old neighbourhoods with an audiobook playing in my ear. Time would be spent outstretched on my sun lounger, on blankets in local parks with the soles of my feet rustling through grass, or on the cushioned seats of cinema screens tucked away from the happenings of everyday.
Though I had a self-imposed duty to make the most of this free time, I was also of course productive when it came to job searching. Capitalist time and the guilt its temporal order evokes ensured this. I would engage in these aforementioned activities after the humdrum of endless job applications left me especially despondent.
There are only so many hours across each day that one can scour LinkedIn. To tackle my ennui and general disillusionment with the State of Things, I’d set off. Things indeed had to get slightly austere, particularly as more time persisted, but I’d go out, live within my means, and relish in a little pleasure wherever I could find it.
There is however, an undercurrent of shame when recounting my months away from work. Perhaps nothing highlights this more than the fact that I write about it retrospectively. Once the end of July arrived, having just one job interview under my belt despite heaps of applications which took hours out of my day, a notable shift occurred. The three month mark was rough. I felt frustrated, embarrassed, and after an (endless) slew of rejections, fervidly unhopeful.
Come August, these feelings heightened. Entering into conversation with strangers, or friends of friends, I found myself gearing up for when the question of “so, what do you do” arises. Once a position that elicited reactions of excitement, my enduring unemployment now felt largely shameful, despite no one reacting to it as such.
My frustration lay mostly with the fact that after years of study, high achievement, and a genuine passion for the field, the jobs I seek are seemingly unattainable, the market impenetrable. Separately, even jobs I didn’t particularly have a vested interest in, but which nonetheless I had experience in, still offered no interviews. Is it too much to ask to be gainfully employed? To enter into the career you studied for, or at the very least one that proposes fulfilment and fascination. Are we, as a generation, as a people, not deserving of that?
I am happy to share that it wasn’t all doom and gloom, however. By September, I had got onto an amazing programme I had applied for in August at an archival institute working towards a winter and summer exhibit. Acceptance onto the programme was the ego boost I desperately needed, affirming that there was space for me in the sector I envisioned myself in. It was a step that would bring me closer to my work related goals, equip me with sector-specific skills, and most importantly, inspire me. Finally, I had a foot in the door.
Circumstances allowed for me to keep a glorious tan
Come October I was offered two job interviews in one week (!) and by the end of it, was offered employment. This is also part-time but still pays much more than the state is willing to give.
A recipient once more of paychecks after five months of economic inactivity, I am humbly grateful. The silver lining (since I always like to find them) of living off of very little is that you can see just how far your money goes. I’ve made thirty quid stretch much further than I thought possible. Growing up working class, this is not a newly acquired skill, but more comparable to exercising an old muscle you haven’t in a while, then finding out, due to the magic of muscle memory, that it’s regained all of its strength.
When I look back on these months filled with the full spectrum of emotions, from glee to gloom, I still hold no regrets at my departure from my workplace. I was unhappy, dispirited, and demoralised due to a compounding number of factors. Though there were hardships I faced related to my unemployment, such as financial restraints (things still are a little precarious), and feelings of despondency related to this job market of ours, I also felt so delighted to liberate myself. To make a decision that was wholly right for me. My era of funemployment was bittersweet, but even if I could, I wouldn’t take it back. I also still keep a film journal.
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