WHAT’S MY SHTICK?

Maybe I don’t have one. Maybe I’m just built to be poor.

I’ve never really sat down to write something I thought anyone would actually care about. But today I woke up with this heavy feeling in my chest and decided to put it somewhere. Last night pushed me here.

For the past few months, I’ve been looking for work. I’ve had a freelance gig. I have my own small business. On paper, that sounds entrepreneurial and exciting. In real life, I still need a steady job — the kind with healthcare, predictable income, and the basic safety net you’re supposed to have when you’re over 45.

So, I’ve been searching. Applying. Networking. Tweaking resumes. Talking myself up to strangers on LinkedIn. Doing all the things you’re “supposed” to do.

And then, last night, I was getting ready for bed.

I walked down the hallway of my small house — the house I bought by myself, the one that’s supposed to be proof that I “made it.” And I saw water running down the wall. My roof was leaking (again). Not a drip. A problem. 

I stood there staring at it, thinking, I need a job and now my fucking roof is leaking.

I did what a lot of adults do when we are at capacity: I threw down a towel, put a bucket under the drip, and went to sleep. I told myself, “It’s just going to be what it’s going to be.” Because in that moment, I had nothing left

That’s when this thought started circling in my head:

Are some of us just built to be poor?

Are some of us just built to always be trying to “figure it out,” always chasing the next opportunity, always trying to find our thing — our angle, our shtick — so we can finally feel safe?

I grew up in a blue-collar, working-class family. I’m not ashamed of that. It shaped me.

We were taught there was a formula for “making it”: 

• Go to school.

• Get an education.

• Keep your head down.

• Save your money.

• Buy a house.

• Be pleasant and useful to whoever signs your paycheck.

Stability was the dream. Not fame, not luxury — stability.

For most of my 20+ year career, I followed that script. I worked. I hustled. I did the late nights, the extra projects, the emotional labor. And for the first time in all those years, I’m sitting here with no steady paycheck, no health insurance, and a leaking roof.

So yeah, I’ve been asking myself: What if I’m just not built to “win” in the way this system defines winning?

Everywhere you look, people are selling their shtick.

The social feeds are full of “I 10x’d my income in 6 months,” “Here’s how I built a million-dollar business,” “Follow me for the blueprint.” Everyone’s got a hook, a niche, a brand.

And if you don’t? The message is: figure it out or get left behind.

So, I tried to figure out mine.

Maybe my shtick is new business and growth in agencies, right? I’ve worked in that space. I know how the machine runs. But if I’m being honest, I wasn’t some pitch-room legend. I wasn’t closing $10 million in new revenue every quarter. I don’t have a golden contact list of CMOs who pick up my call on the first ring. I can’t sit on a stage and pretend I’ve cracked some magical agency growth formula. That’s just not my story.

Okay, then maybe my shtick is small business and community building. I co-founded a fitness studio. I create spaces for people. It sounds good. But I don’t have a waiting list of members throwing money at my programs. I don’t have the “we scaled from zero to seven figures in 18 months” story. I’m still figuring it out, still trying to keep the lights on. So that doesn’t feel honest either.

Maybe my shtick is mentorship. I care deeply about people. I’ve helped folks find their voice, their path, their courage. But I’m not sitting on a TED stage handing out 3-step career frameworks that guarantee success. I’m still stumbling through my own path in the dark most days. So, am I really in a position to package that up and sell it like some perfected system?

Then there’s DEI. I could lean hard into being the Black woman who talks about being “the only” in certain rooms — the microaggressions, the fatigue, the politics of existing in spaces that weren’t built for you. There’s a formula for that, too. But even that feels like a trap sometimes, like a performance people expect from me and something I actually don't want to monetize - nobody cares.

And of course, there’s gardening and plants. I love it. It grounds me. I know how powerful it is to grow something with your own hands in your own soil. I believe in backyard oases, in turning small spaces into sanctuaries. But I’m not going to pretend I’m about to become a millionaire (or even stable) selling herbs and potted plants out of my backyard when most people are going to Home Depot and grabbing whatever they want for $2. Let’s be real.

So what’s my shtick? I honestly don’t know.

I’ve asked ChatGPT, podcasts, books, self-help threads, all of it. They all spit back the same generic stuff:

 “You’re in high demand.” “Your unique blend of skills is your superpower.” “Clarify your value proposition.”

And sure, that sounds nice. But then I look up and my roof is leaking (again), and I’m texting friends for intros, trying not to feel like I’m begging. I did everything “right” — the degree, the hard work, the relationships, the networking, the volunteering. And somehow, here I am, wondering if I missed some crucial step.

Because in this world, you’re told your value is tied to the clear story you can talk about yourself:

• What’s your angle?

• What’s your hook?

• What’s your monetizable gift?

• How do you use other people’s time, money, or attention — and how will they use yours?

If you can’t answer that in a clean, marketable sentence, the world treats you like background noise.

So, here’s the truth: I’m struggling. I’m struggling to find my shtick.

I’m struggling to understand why some people’s stories seem to line up so neatly — “I did X, which led to Y, now I make Z” — while mine feels like scattered puzzle pieces on the floor.

I’m struggling with the idea that maybe we only listen to people once they’ve packaged themselves into something easy to digest and easy to buy. Maybe we’ve forgotten how to value people who are in the middle of the mess, still figuring it out, roof leaking and all.

I don’t have a tidy conclusion. I don’t have a five-point framework. I don’t have a secret to sell you.

What I do have is this moment of honesty:

• I am scared about money.

• I am tired of selling versions of myself that don’t feel real.

• I am exhausted by the pressure to brand my existence.

• I am unsure of what my “thing” is — or if I even want one in the way the world defines it.

I’m not writing this as a strategy to build a brand or a following. I’m not trying to make this my shtick.

I’m writing it because I needed to put something real into a space that’s full of polished narratives and curated vulnerability. I’m writing it because somewhere out there, someone else might be staring at their own version of a leaking roof, wondering if they’re built wrong for this world.

Maybe we’re not built to be poor. Maybe we’re just living in a system that can’t see value unless it’s wrapped in a pitch deck.

Or maybe I’m just built to be poor? Because, I still don’t know what my shtick is.

But today, my thing is telling the truth, even when it doesn’t sell.