I’d been up since 4 a.m., sitting at my computer with an email ready to rescind my acceptance of a customer-service job at a large department store.

It was August 2025, and I was supposed to start that morning. Shame had me hovering over the “send” button.

I wondered how it had come to this. I had a college education, decades of experience in social work, and had spent the last six years writing for major publications. Yet here I was, back in a department store, doing the kind of customer-service work I had first done as a teenager. Only now I was 55.

I didn’t think the work was beneath me, but at my age, I believed I should be “further along” in my career. I thought I should either be supporting myself as a writer or using my education and experience in social work and mental health, doing work that felt more meaningful.

Returning to retail felt like going backward. Still, I deleted the draft and got ready for my shift.

At first, I pretended I was volunteering to get past the shame I felt

I got through my first days at the customer-service desk by telling myself I could leave whenever I wanted. I pretended I was a volunteer who also got paid. This mental trick helped, but the truth was I needed a job — and I needed money.

I’d moved to Iowa City two years earlier with my partner, but a year later, we separated. Until then, my freelance work had been enough to cover my share of the bills. Now that I was on my own, I needed more income.

I looked for both full-time and part-time jobs in social work and mental health, but couldn’t find the right fit. The positions either paid too little or had hours and stress levels that would leave me too drained to keep writing, my true passion.

The retail job paid a couple of dollars less than a social-work role I’d applied for, but offered flexible hours and what felt like a manageable amount of stress.

In time, my coworkers made me feel like I belonged

Working alongside three younger coworkers really helped me become more comfortable on the job. One, just 18 at the time, patiently trained me at the service desk. Another was a poet who landed in Iowa City a year earlier. We bonded over our love of books and cats.

The third, a warm young woman who’d moved to the US from Africa, was working toward her college degree. She taught me how to make the perfect bow for customer gifts.

They were vastly different from me, but they were going through many of the same things I had as a young woman. I looked forward to seeing them, hearing their stories, and talking while we prepared merchandise.

I felt honored when they asked me questions, shared their troubles or triumphs, or showed me the outfit they were going to wear out on Friday night.

As a middle-aged woman who had been socially isolated for the past six years while working as a writer, I felt surprisingly welcome. They did not seem to be making the judgments about me that I was making about myself.

Before I knew it, the holidays had arrived. While sipping peppermint mochas and furiously wrapping Christmas gifts, we talked about our plans. By the New Year, I was too busy — and felt too needed — to keep wallowing in my retail self-pity.

It’s not the social work I used to do, but it’s still a way to serve

My customers mattered to me, too. One was an older gentleman who often came in wearing an American Legion baseball hat, pushing his wife in a wheelchair as they picked up her online orders.

After a few months, he’d begun picking up the orders by himself. His wife had gotten too ill to come along, he told me.

One day, he came to return a dress he’d bought her. He said she had lost a lot of weight and now needed a smaller size. We chatted about the weather and the work he used to do when he was younger. When I told him it was kind of him to come in for her, he shrugged. “It’s what I do,” he said.

I couldn’t solve what he and his wife were going through, but I could listen. I could be patient and make those few minutes at the customer-service desk a warm exchange.

Over time, I began to see the same opportunity with other customers. The work was different from social work, but some of what mattered was the same. Whether I was counting back change, wrapping a gift, or helping someone find a fitting room, I had the opportunity to be of service and make someone’s day a little easier.

I began to understand that even small interactions could make a difference.

It’s now been a little over a year at the department store. I no longer feel shame or embarrassment. I enjoy the work, my customers, and my coworkers, and I find value in what I do every day.

I’m no longer sure this work matters less than any other work I’ve done. I don’t think I’ll stay in retail forever — supporting myself through my writing is still the goal, but right now my retail job makes it possible to pursue it.