On my last day at my most recent temp job in a series of journalism temp jobs where I wasn’t hired on full-time, we had cupcakes in honor of my departure.

They were fancy ones, too, the kind with buttercream frosting and spongy red velvet cake. The entire magazine staff gathered in the break room to nosh on sweets and bid me good luck. I felt myself blush when the editor I had been closest with started in on how I was a great addition to the team and would be sorely missed. She said I was moving on to new and exciting things, which was technically true. Still, her speech made me feel the need to promptly fill my mouth with a cupcake lest I feel compelled to say something other than “thank you.”

Almost exactly four years ago, I graduated from Columbia with a master’s degree in journalism. In that time, I haven’t held a full-time job (I’m talking about a salaried position including benefits and vacation days) in this field. On a temporary or contractual basis, I’ve worked at the Poetry Foundation, Time Inc. Content Solutions, in the marketing department of a financial services firm, as a tutor and a social media consultant for a publisher, and most recently, at a widely known personal finance magazine. I’ve also freelanced consistently for print and web outlets including Slate, Salon, The Daily Beast, The New York Observer, Women’s e-News, Narrative.ly, and elsewhere, plus written a very rough first draft of a novel. But all of that is beside the point.

Last fall I decided it was time to be brutally honest with myself and figure out why I was unable to get a full-time job. I’d applied for countless positions, reached out directly to editors at magazines I was interested in working for, and contacted journalists whose paths seem similar to mine to ask if I could take them for coffee and pick their brains about their career trajectory. Most praised my work, reiterated what I already knew about journalism being a difficult industry right now, and assured me it was just a matter of time before something worked out.

I decided I needed to return to square one. In my freelance work, I’d focused on deeply reported longform pieces, book reviews and essays— the writing I’m most passionate about, but that typically pays peanuts. Perhaps I’d been too ambitious, or simply unrealistic. As a freelancer I was only just scraping by, and the tricky balancing act of tutoring, pitching stories, writing, reporting and churning out “content” that paid my bills but didn’t really count as real, legitimate clips was stressing me out. My days went something like this: coffee, self-flagellate, try to write, get a pitch rejected, try to write, check Twitter and feel self-loathing and jealousy, send out a resume, more caffeine, guilt over buying an overpriced latte, follow up on nudging for payment I was guaranteed for something I’d published four months ago, etc. etc.

I actually began to crave the routine and stability of an office job, and I was writing things I cared about less and less as money became more and more of an issue. So I applied for everything, even temporary positions, and got a six-week, entry-level fact-checking position at the aforementioned magazine. (I leave out the name not because it’s a secret, but to share my struggle with the overall state of the industry.)

Things started looking up. After my original six-week contract ended, they asked me to stay on another two months with the possibility of a full-time job down the line. When those two months were up, my editor told me she was impressed with my work and asked me to stay on for yet another two months, again dangling the possibility of a full-time job. After each extension, I was given more responsibility. My job title was still, officially, fact-checker, but I was also doing research for senior writers, hunting down “real people” for features, coming up with ideas and participating in staff pitch meetings, plus writing front-of-book pieces and profiles.

Each time my contract was extended, I felt incredibly grateful. My boyfriend and sister, who don’t work in journalism, were nonplussed. Why should I be grateful that they were paying me a modest hourly wage and extending me for short periods of time? If I was an asset, why didn’t they just hire me? It wasn’t fair to keep me in limbo, holding aloft the bait of a full-time job that might never come to fruition. Because I had held onto my tutoring and content-writing gigs as backup, I was busier than ever, they noted. I deserved to have a steady job and come home and chill, like a normal person. Clearly, I was being taken advantage of, and what had I gone to graduate school for if not stability? Besides, they said, the writing and reporting I’d done over nearly four years made me overqualified for the position. Instead of me being grateful they were offering me short stints, they should be grateful to have me. These were all fair points.

But the thing is, I was grateful. I understand that I’m working in a ravaged industry in major flux. During my nearly six months at the magazine, the entire company let go of research librarians who’d been on staff for years. I knew full-time positions were hard to come by for people with far more experience than I had. But recognizing these big-picture structural changes did little to quell my personal anxiety. I questioned if I was settling, or selling myself short. But what was the alternative? Demand they hire me? The truth is that with each rejection I lost more and more confidence, especially as I saw friends skyrocket ahead in their careers. Prior to becoming a journalist, I left a career in education after five years, feeling optimistic about pursuing the path I’d wanted to all along. Now I questioned my choices and wondered if I was doing it all wrong. I told myself I just had to work harder, better, faster, and I came up with all the reasons why I was a failure: My work sucks. I don’t tweet often enough. I’m too ugly, too pretty, too old or too young. I’m not aggressive enough. I don’t have a defined personal brand. My focus is too narrow. Potential employers will look at my work as a “content producer” and think I’m a sellout. Potential employers will look at my freelance work and think I can’t hold down a stable job. I didn’t take an unpaid internship right out of grad school. I don’t have connections.

Intellectually, I know none of this is true. When I’m not beating myself up, somewhere deep down I know that I’m good at what I do. Rather, I know that my desire to uncover ideas, craft those ideas into stories, and shape those stories with words is an authentic one. Maybe I’ve translated this desire into a career because doing the meticulous work of arranging words on the page, once I’m on the other side of an assignment, is the only thing that seems to bring me the kind of stillness I wish were my default. Maybe that’s the problem. It’s not just a “skills set” to me. It’s the way I function in the world.

This piece started with a simple goal — to show that while I don’t believe I’m entitled to anything (including a full-time journalism job) I’m qualified and capable of one, and it frustrates me that I, and I’m sure others, can’t seem to get one. But maybe I’ve proven the opposite. If I’m using earnest words like “desire” and “stillness” to guide my career, perhaps I’m showing I’ve formed my career with too much heart, not enough head. Perhaps my writing on varied topics, simply because they interest me, comes across as scattered. What all this might mean to employers is that I don’t have a clear, cohesive narrative.

Maybe that’s why I feel a little resentful. I’ve tried so hard to “fit in” but the truth is I question whether I’m compromising myself every time I try to simplify my story. I don’t want to play down the fact I write about poetry and finance, or that I worked in education and taught overseas before pursuing journalism. I’d like to think that others would find me interesting because of these experiences, or that I offer a different perspective. But I’m not stupid. No one is handing out trophies for participation anymore. What I’m trying to say is that I was always that girl who turned in all her homework on time, never misbehaved and rarely complained. And for a certain sort of Type A striver determined to succeed, this seems to land you squarely in job purgatory.

After nearly six months in total, said magazine offered to extend me once again — but they still couldn’t promise me a job down the line. In the meantime, my content-writing gig wanted someone to write more regularly. It was still a contractual situation (no benefits and I would still be paid per word), but it would last a year and pay far more than my current hourly wage. I hesitated. I’m a journalist, not a content creator, I reasoned. I get a lot of satisfaction producing a magazine and working with a team. It’s also a pleasant, pride-inducing shorthand to be able to say, with no asterisk or clarifying footnote, “I work at X magazine in Y position.”

I hemmed and hawed about the content offer. But after a while I couldn’t justify staying at a place that might not hire me, and making so little to boot. The bottom line is that I need to make a living. I told the magazine I had to move on. I left on good terms, already with some freelance work for them lined up, and we parted ways with cupcakes and promises to stay in touch. But that will probably be the last “job” I have in journalism.

So now I’m a content creator. What does that mean? I take dry, proprietary research and write articles that are attributed to big shots in the financial services world. It’s not so bad. When I’m not doing that, I’m still writing and reporting. I still strive to do the in-depth, critical work I’ve always wanted to do. I have a little disposable income for the first time. There are certainly perks of working from home. Maybe it’s simply not my path to work in a traditional capacity (what does that even mean anymore?) as a journalist. In some ways, I’m grateful for the thick skin I’ve developed after healing from rejection’s jabs and uppercuts. I’ve learned how to spar. I still feel grateful for my six months at that magazine, and to have worked with intelligent, savvy editors. I still feel a little sad about it, too.

I often think about something an editor in his fifties once told me. He worked at the financial services firm I was writing for, and he’d been at print publications for years, including a stint as the deputy editor of a well-regarded men’s magazine before going over to what is often called “the dark side.” If he was starting out today, he told me, he would never go into journalism. He laughed (not in a cruel way) at my career frustrations and said that my wish to work at a magazine was like wanting to be the best buggy whip-maker in all of New York just as the car was replacing the horse and carriage.

I don’t know if he’s right. I hope he isn’t. But for now, I guess I’ve laid to rest my horse and buggy dreams in favor of the car of the future (content). I’m still not sure where it will take me.