Am I a career waitress?

Hello anonymous friend, I’m Taylor.

I’m 32 years old, and I’m still a waitress. That sentence tends to land with a reaction—surprise, curiosity, sometimes judgment. I’ve learned to notice it, and to let it pass.

I never went to college in the traditional sense—unless you count the trade school I attended to become a veterinary assistant. I graduated, technically qualified, and promptly

fainted during my first surgery. That was the moment I realized I was not built for that world. Scheduling euthanasias over the phone, absorbing other people’s grief for animals they loved deeply—I couldn’t carry any of it. Some paths make sense on paper and nowhere else. This one wasn’t mine.

I was never a good student. I never imagined myself living past thirty. Maybe that’s what anxiety does—it shortens your future until you stop planning altogether. I assumed I’d become a housewife, or simply disappear into something undefined. I didn’t think I was smart enough for a “real” career. What I was, and still am, is very good at waiting tables.

Not charming-good. Not fake-smile-good. Professional-good. Prompt, efficient, precise. I tell my coworkers I’ll never get a bad review—and I won’t get a glowing one either. And that’s true. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I walk with a 20–22% tip, which tells me everything I need to know. I’ve been doing this for fifteen years, and somehow, I still love it. Even with social anxiety, I can flip the switch. I can perform competence.

Waitressing has given me something rare: mobility without fear. I’ve moved cities knowing I could land on my feet. It has saved me more times than I can count. I average between $60,000 and $80,000 a year depending on where I live—sometimes more. Saying that out loud feels strange at this age, but it’s the truth. I work nights. I work about five hours a shift, maybe twenty hours a week. I like it this way. Serving isn’t a side hustle for me—it’s my career, whether people like that word or not.

Am I embarrassed to say I’m a server at 32? Sometimes. It depends on the restaurant. Right now, in Portland, yes—I’m embarrassed by the place, not the work. Bartending might age better socially, but it isn’t me. And no, I don’t see myself doing something else. Not unless it’s my own business, something I build myself, or a life where work stops being the central question.

I enjoy my work. I don’t dread my shifts. I value my days off. For now, this is not a failure or a placeholder. It is, honestly, the best-case scenario.