My job is unbalanced and toxic — overworked, undervalued, and disrespected.
Let’s talk about this:
Hi everyone, I’m 28 and I’ve been working in a restaurant kitchen. I work 9 hours a day plus a 1-hour break — 10 hours total — but I often end up working 2–3 hours overtime without pay. I barely get to eat or drink water because it’s so busy. I rush through my tasks just to go home earlier, but it’s exhausting.
Here’s what I’ve been facing:
1️⃣ I work overtime almost every day without breaks or overtime pay.
2️⃣ The workload is excessive.
3️⃣ No compensation for extra hours.
4️⃣ My coworkers take advantage of me.
5️⃣ My supervisor doesn’t manage people or time properly — I’m not the “favorite,” so I get scolded in front of others, sometimes even hit or slapped at work.
6️⃣ I’m constantly compared to others and made to feel small.
7️⃣ I feel like I’m stuck — there’s no growth.
8️⃣ I’m drained and demoralized almost every day.
I always do my job fully — mistakes happen, but I give my best.
The only good thing is the salary, which is decent enough to support my family.
But I’ve endured this for 2 years already, hoping things would get better — they haven’t.
Should I quit, even if I don’t have another job lined up?
Here’s how I see it :
🌙 “The Kitchen That Ate My Spirit”
A letter for those who’ve given too much of themselves at work.
You wake before dawn.
The city is still dark, streets half-asleep, and yet your day has already begun.
Your hands already smell faintly of onions and steel.
The kitchen waits for you — a small, windowless room that hums with the sound of exhaust fans and the hiss of boiling oil. The moment you step inside, the air thickens. The world narrows to the sound of knives hitting boards, the weight of trays, and the constant voice of someone shouting, “Faster! Move!”
You’re twenty-eight — young enough to still have dreams, old enough to feel the weight of survival.
You tell yourself this is temporary. That if you keep working hard, maybe the chef will notice. Maybe you’ll get promoted. Maybe you’ll finally have time to breathe.
But two years later, you’re still standing in that same kitchen, sweating, rushing, flinching.
Still hoping for a day that never comes.
🍽️ 1. The Rhythm of Exhaustion
You start at nine. You finish at… well, nobody knows.
Officially, it’s nine hours plus a one-hour break. In reality, it’s twelve — sometimes thirteen. The break rarely happens.
Sometimes you don’t even remember when you last drank water.
Your body moves on autopilot: chop, stir, plate, wipe, repeat.
You rush through tasks just to leave early — but “early” doesn’t exist here. Someone always calls your name. Another order. Another mistake to fix that wasn’t yours. Another plate to redo because a “favorite” coworker forgot their part.
When you finally walk home, your back aches, your mind buzzes, and your heart feels hollow. You fall asleep not because you’re peaceful — but because your body collapses.
⚙️ 2. The Machine That Consumes
Some workplaces feel like families.
Yours feels like a machine — a loud, messy one that eats people whole.
It runs on fear, not respect.
On hierarchy, not teamwork.
There’s always someone shouting. Always someone being humiliated to prove another’s authority. You’re not the favorite, so you get the scolding. Sometimes worse — a slap on the arm, a hand pushing you away from the counter.
You pretend it doesn’t hurt.
But inside, a quiet voice whispers: “This isn’t normal.”
Still, you silence it.
Because the bills don’t wait. Because the paycheck feeds your family. Because “maybe things will get better.”
But they don’t.
They only teach you to expect less — less kindness, less fairness, less of yourself.
🧩 3. The Illusion of Strength
In a toxic environment, survival looks like strength.
You keep showing up, day after day, convincing yourself it’s resilience.
“I can handle this.”
“I’ll just push through.”
“Other people have it worse.”
But that’s not strength.
That’s self-abandonment in disguise.
Real strength is knowing when something is breaking you — and daring to stop it.
You’ve endured for two years. That’s not weakness. That’s loyalty, perseverance, and courage.
But loyalty becomes self-harm when it’s given to a system that does not care whether you collapse.
🔥 4. When Work Becomes Abuse
What you’re describing — unpaid overtime, humiliation, physical aggression, public scolding — these aren’t just “bad management.” They are forms of workplace abuse.
Abuse doesn’t always leave bruises. Sometimes it leaves insomnia, fatigue, and the quiet terror of hearing your supervisor’s footsteps behind you.
Abuse makes you question yourself. It makes you apologize for things that aren’t your fault. It convinces you that you’re replaceable.
But you’re not.
You’re a living, breathing person who deserves dignity.
The moment your workplace makes you forget that, it’s no longer just a job — it’s a place of harm.
💭 5. The Psychological Trap
Why do good, hardworking people stay in bad jobs?
Because of fear — and because of hope.
You think,
“Maybe next month will be better.”
“Maybe they’ll finally see how much I do.”
“Maybe I can’t find another job right now.”
“At least I’m providing for my family.”
And those may all be true. But here’s the harder truth:
Every year you spend in an unhealthy system, the harder it becomes to remember what healthy feels like.
The longer you endure injustice, the more you start to believe you deserve it.
That’s how burnout happens — not from laziness or weakness, but from carrying too much for too long without recognition or rest.
🌧️ 6. The Silent Erosion
You wake up one morning and realize you no longer laugh the same. The things that used to bring joy — a favorite song, a weekend walk — feel muted.
You stop dreaming about the future because dreaming hurts.
This is what chronic devaluation does. It erodes your sense of worth grain by grain until you forget who you were before you were exhausted.
Psychologists call it learned helplessness — when your brain, after enduring constant unfairness, stops believing it can change its situation.
But you can change it. You just need to remember that the cage door has always been open.
💔 7. The Weight of Two Years
Two years in that kitchen. Two years of standing on aching feet, swallowing anger, biting your tongue.
Two years of waiting for fairness that never came.
That’s not a sign of failure — it’s a measure of your endurance. But every measure has a limit.
Your body knows it.
Your mind knows it.
Even your soul, quiet but steady, whispers every night before sleep: “This isn’t where I’m meant to stay.”
🧠 8. The Cost of Endurance
When people say, “At least you have a good salary,” they forget something crucial:
Money can’t repair a broken nervous system.
The cost of endurance is invisible — sleepless nights, anxiety before every shift, a heartbeat that races whenever you hear your supervisor’s voice.
Over time, chronic stress floods your body with cortisol. Your digestion weakens. Your immune system tires. Your emotions flatten.
You stop recognizing yourself.
So yes — you’re earning a living, but you’re also losing parts of your life in the process.
And no paycheck is worth that.
⚖️ 9. The Turning Point
So here comes the question that terrifies and liberates at the same time:
“Should I quit, even if I don’t have another job lined up?”
There’s no single answer. Only this:
Listen to the voice beneath your fear.
If it’s whispering “I can’t take this anymore,” it’s not weakness — it’s wisdom.
Your body always knows when it’s time to leave.
It sends signals: headaches, stomach knots, dread, tears that come too easily. Those aren’t random. They’re your body saying, “You’re not safe here.”
When your workplace harms your health, leaving becomes self-care, not recklessness.
🪶 10. If You Can Hold On a Little Longer
If you still have some emotional energy left, plan your exit carefully.
1️⃣ Quietly prepare.
Don’t announce your plans. Keep doing your duties, but focus on securing your next step. Update your résumé. Reach out to contacts. Look for openings, even part-time or temporary ones.
2️⃣ Save a cushion.
Try to put aside at least three months of expenses. Think of it as a bridge between this chapter and the next.
3️⃣ Stop giving more than required.
You’ve proven your work ethic already. From now on, protect your energy. Do what’s fair — no more martyrdom.
4️⃣ Detach emotionally.
Don’t internalize their chaos. Their management is broken — not you.
Leaving with clarity is far better than leaving in collapse.
🚨 11. But If You’re Already Breaking
If you find yourself crying in bathrooms, unable to eat, dreading every morning — that’s not burnout anymore. That’s your body pleading for rescue.
Then yes, it’s time to leave, even without a new job yet.
Because sometimes survival means stepping away before the fire consumes you.
Remember: you can rebuild savings, rebuild a résumé, rebuild a career — but you cannot rebuild a destroyed nervous system.
You deserve rest before you rebuild.
🌱 12. After You Leave
The first few days might feel strange. You’ll wake up early, half expecting to hear the kitchen noise. Then you’ll realize — silence.
That silence will scare you at first. You’ll think, “What now?”
But that silence is sacred. It’s the space where you’ll meet yourself again.
Take time to breathe.
Eat slowly.
Drink water — not in sips between tasks, but in full, mindful gulps.
Your body will remember what safety feels like.
🧘♀️ 13. Reclaiming Yourself
Once you’ve rested, start writing.
Not about the pain — at least not yet — but about what you’ve learned.
Write:
- What kind of leader do I never want to work under again?
- What boundaries will I never cross for a paycheck?
- What kind of environment makes me feel alive?
Those answers will become your compass.
Because you’re not leaving just a job — you’re leaving a version of yourself that believed endurance was the only way to survive.
📘 14. Lessons from the Kitchen
You learned speed, precision, teamwork — but also patience, humility, and endurance. You learned how chaos smells, how heat feels, and how silence can scream louder than words.
So don’t think you wasted time.
You were in a classroom — a brutal one — but you learned lessons no university could teach.
Now it’s time to graduate.
💬 15. The Redefinition of Success
Success isn’t staying where you’re miserable just to prove you’re strong.
Success is walking away when something keeps breaking your spirit.
People might call you ungrateful, dramatic, lazy. Ignore them. They’re not the ones who wake up with your exhaustion.
Leaving doesn’t mean you failed the job.
It means the job failed to deserve you.
💖 16. You Deserve Respect, Not Just Pay
You’re not just a kitchen worker.
You’re an artist of flavor, a silent giver, someone whose hands feed hundreds.
But no one — not even the most skilled — should have to endure humiliation or assault to earn a living.
You deserve:
- A workplace where “thank you” is said more often than “hurry up.”
- A team that values your time.
- A boss who corrects with respect, not aggression.
You deserve peace, not fear.
🌤️ 17. For When You Doubt Yourself
You might have nights where you wonder if leaving was a mistake. When fear whispers, “What if you can’t find better?”
In those moments, remind yourself:
You once survived twelve-hour shifts, hunger, and humiliation — you can survive uncertainty too.
Freedom will feel uncomfortable at first. But discomfort is the space between who you were and who you’re becoming.
Keep walking. Even slow steps count.
🌷 18. Healing Isn’t Laziness
Taking a break doesn’t mean you’re giving up. It means you’re giving yourself back.
Let your hands heal. Let your mind rest. Let your joy return in small doses — a cup of tea, a long shower, sunlight through your window.
The world outside that kitchen is still beautiful, still waiting for you.
🌙 19. When You’re Ready for the Next Chapter
When you start looking again, choose wisely:
- Ask about overtime policies before accepting.
- Observe how the manager speaks to their staff.
- Notice if there’s laughter in the room — it tells you more than job descriptions ever will.
Promise yourself:
“I will never again trade my dignity for a paycheck.”
Because once you’ve known the cost, you’ll never pay it twice.
✨ 20. The Inner Dialogue to Replace
Instead of saying:
“I’m weak for wanting to leave.”
Say:
“I’m wise for recognizing what’s hurting me.”
Instead of:
“I failed to endure.”
Say:
“I refused to be broken.”
Instead of:
“I’m just a worker.”
Say:
“I’m a human being who deserves respect.”
These words will rebuild the foundation that the kitchen eroded.
🕊️ 21. The Emotional Detox
Leaving a toxic job is like leaving a long, abusive relationship.
At first, you miss the chaos because peace feels unfamiliar.
But slowly, your nervous system begins to heal.
You sleep deeper.
Your shoulders drop.
Your laughter comes back.
That’s not weakness. That’s recovery.
Let it take time. Let it feel awkward. Healing always does.
🌻 22. You Didn’t Fail — You Awoke
You didn’t quit because you’re lazy. You quit because you’re awake.
You saw through the illusion that hard work automatically earns respect. You realized that some systems are designed to exploit good people — because they know you’ll give until there’s nothing left.
But now you know better.
And knowing better is how healing begins.
🔥 23. To Anyone Still in That Kitchen
If you’re still there, quietly suffering, I see you.
I know the feeling of wiping tears before putting on your apron.
Of pretending to smile while your hands shake.
Of counting the minutes till you can go home and not speak to anyone.
You are not invisible.
And you deserve better.
One day, you’ll walk out of that door for the last time.
You’ll look back, and instead of shame, you’ll feel pride — because you survived.
💌 24. A Final Message for You
You’ve carried too much for too long.
You’ve given more than you were ever paid for.
You’ve stood in heat and chaos, feeding others while starving for kindness.
It’s time for a different kind of nourishment.
Feed your own life now — with rest, with love, with the quiet satisfaction of choosing yourself.
The world will still need cooks, but what it needs even more are people who refuse to lose their souls in the process.
So, if you decide to leave, walk out not as a failure —
but as someone reclaiming their dignity.
And when you finally close that door behind you, take a deep breath and whisper:
“I’m free.”
Because that moment — that inhale of freedom — will taste better than anything you’ve ever served. 🌿
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All entries on DramoCiety are for reflective and educational purposes only. They are not personal or therapeutic advice.
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