I just walked out of work at exactly five PM and I swear I could feel the collective glares burning into the back of my head, like my spine was a billboard for betrayal, and I had to physically restrain myself from sprinting to the subway because I felt like a goddamn criminal. Anyone else ever feel this absolute gut-wrenching shame for doing something so incredibly normal, so human, like just… leaving your workplace when your hours are technically done? I’m a junior architect, right, just three years out of my master’s program, and I’m still clinging to this idealistic vision of what it means to create, to design something that lasts, something beautiful and meaningful. That’s why I spent five years of my life in school, racking up enough student debt to buy a small island, because I truly believed in the craft. But then you get into the real world, and it’s just… this. Another day of staring at spreadsheets, revising drawings for the tenth time because some client decided they wanted the north-facing wall to be a slightly different shade of beige, and meanwhile I’m watching my mentors, these incredibly talented people I used to look up to, just… staying. Every single night. Until seven, eight, sometimes nine PM. And they’re not even working on the cool, innovative stuff anymore, it’s all just… grunt work, glorified project management, pushing pixels around a screen while their actual creative souls slowly shrivel up and die. I hear them talking about their kids, their spouses, what they *used* to do for fun, and it’s always in this defeated, almost wistful tone, like they’re already ghosts haunting their own lives. And I’m just supposed to accept that? That this is what it means to be an architect? To dedicate your life to something only for it to chew you up and spit you out, leaving you with nothing but a fat paycheck and a slowly eroding sense of self? I looked at Dave today, he’s been here for like fifteen years, and he had that same thousand-yard stare as he was explaining some structural detail to me, and I just saw my future flash before my eyes. Like a horror movie, except the monster is a deadline and the victim is my soul. And all I could think was, NO. Not me. Not yet. So I packed up my bag, put on my coat, and walked out. The silence was deafening. I didn’t even say goodbye. Just a quiet click of my office door, a whisper of a “goodnight” to the empty reception area, and then the elevator ride down, feeling lighter and heavier all at once. Like I was flying, but also dragging a massive weight of guilt behind me. I know they’re probably talking about me right now, the lazy junior, the one who doesn’t care enough. And maybe they’re right. Maybe I don’t care enough about *this* version of the craft. But I feel this burning anger inside me, this RAGE, that the system has warped something so inherently beautiful into this soul-crushing machine. Am I the only one who feels this way? Like I’ve been sold a lie, a beautifully packaged, high-gloss lie, and now I’m standing here with the empty box, wondering what the hell to do with myself. Because I still love design, I still get that thrill when I see a perfectly executed building, a thoughtful space. But if this is the only way to do it, if this is the price of admission… then maybe I should just cut my losses now. Get a job doing something completely different, something that doesn’t demand my entire being and then leave me feeling completely EMPTY at the end of the day. Because I don’t want to be Dave. I just don't.