"Hobby Job" - A Moral Dilemma

What started as a light side gig revealed a much deeper truth about labor, wages, and dignity.

A few months ago, I picked up what I called a “hobby job.” The idea was simple: get out of the house, move my body, clear my head, and maybe explore what a future “retirement job” could look like. My husband and I run a business together, and I thought a change of pace might bring some balance and insight.

I wasn’t looking for a paycheck or a promotion—just something grounding, physical, and different.

What I didn’t expect was how much I would love it.

The job gave me structure, stamina, and a clarity I didn’t know I was missing. I lost weight, slept better, and found a renewed sense of focus—even at Director’s Assistant, where I was already pouring my energy. I’m writing this at 5am—something I used to only do when catching a flight and chasing down an airport Bloody Mary.

But last Friday, I gave my two weeks’ notice.

Director’s Assistant has grown quickly this spring. Sales are up, and our clients are relying on us more than ever. It’s time for me to go all-in on the company we’ve built. Our customers deserve it.

Still, I left the nursery changed—and not just physically.

On Sunday, May 11, the managers—who have been consistently supportive, thoughtful, and deeply human—called me in to talk about my departure. They were concerned and kind. Truthfully, I’ve learned a lot just by observing how they lead. They treat their people with genuine care. I admire them.

But what happened after that meeting is what stuck with me most.

One of my coworkers—someone I came to deeply admire—had told me the week prior that she was putting in her two weeks’ notice. She had finally been offered another job—one that paid her a truly acceptable wage. She had worked at the nursery for years and loved it deeply. She took pride in her work and never phoned it in. She was the kind of employee any business would be lucky to have.

And yet, due to budget cuts, the company let her go early—meaning she made even less on her way out after years of loyal service.

Let me say that again:
She gave years of sweat, commitment, and care—and was sent home a week early to save a few bucks.

She loved the job. And that’s what breaks my heart the most.

Because she’s not alone.

This entire team is one of the hardest-working groups I’ve ever known. They’re out in the sun, on their feet all day, pushing carts, lifting heavy loads, watering, organizing, helping customers, and making the entire business function. Many of them commute 45 to 60 minutes in traffic each way, only to be met with shifting lunch breaks every day—when they get one at all. On Easter Sunday, we didn’t get a lunch break at all!

Let that sit with you. A national holiday, in full sun, with record foot traffic—and no break to eat.

Still, these workers show up. They do their jobs with pride. They move fast, smile through exhaustion, and give more than they’re ever compensated for.

And here I was, someone who didn’t need the job, benefiting from the same system that undervalues them. That’s the part I’m still grappling with.

Was it even right for me to take this job in the first place?

It gave me structure and healing—but it could have been a lifeline for someone else. A high school graduate. A single parent. A person starting over. Did I unknowingly take a position someone else truly needed?

And more importantly—why are we OK with paying people so little for such demanding, essential work?

This isn’t a critique of the local management. They’re doing what they can within a broken system. But that system is what allows companies to thrive, sales to rise, and workers to be treated as disposable.

We call these “entry-level” jobs. But there’s nothing entry-level about what this team does.

They deserve better.
They are better.
And we need to do better—for them.

This was never just a hobby job.
It was a wake-up call.
And I won’t forget it.