"Thank you for your interest in the position. After careful consideration, we've decided to move forward with a candidate who more closely aligns with the role."
I've memorized that sentence. Some version of it lands in my inbox almost every week now.
I graduated with distinction from The Ohio State University in spring 2025. My film degree tends to raise eyebrows — I know that. But I wasn't a passive student coasting on creativity. I joined multiple organizations, completed four industry internships, held three on-campus jobs, and was promoted to manager in several customer-service roles. I built a real résumé.
None of it seems to matter to Starbucks or Target.
The conventional path for a film grad is Los Angeles. But the industry I trained for is in rough shape — battered by strikes, wildfires, and widespread downsizing. Opportunities that used to exist simply don't exist anymore. So for now, I'm living with my parents, taking stock, and weighing options: grad school, a cross-country move, something else entirely.
I'm grateful to have that safety net. Not everyone does. But staying home was never meant to be permanent — it was meant to be strategic. To save money, stay grounded, and find part-time work to help my parents and fund whatever comes next.
That last part has proven harder than I ever expected.
I assumed the difficult part would be breaking into film. Instead, it's been convincing a movie theater to let me sell popcorn.
I've gone through three rounds of interviews for a part-time theater job — and didn't get it. I've waited weeks after promising public-sector interviews, only to be told my qualifications didn't match, despite meeting every requirement listed in the posting. Food service employers have turned me away, too, apparently unconvinced that someone who managed customer-service teams in college can learn to bus tables.
What's strange is that freelance film work has been easier to land than any of this. The industry I supposedly can't break into has been more welcoming than retail.
I don't regret my degree — not for a second.
Several friends who chose more "practical" majors are watching their entry-level fields get automated out from under them. They're applying for jobs unrelated to what they studied, often with fewer of the communication, critical thinking, and adaptability skills that a liberal arts education quietly builds. We're all figuring it out. The degree didn't matter as much as we thought — in either direction.
What none of us anticipated was this: a hiring landscape so automated, so impersonal, that it's become nearly impossible to dream small. To take a modest job that supports a larger ambition. The same AI accelerating our career anxieties is now screening us out before a human ever reads our names.
I'm not asking for my dream job. I'm asking for a shift.