The problem is, I didn’t love it.

My first semester of college, I worked at a chain coffee and bagel café. I quit last week, and I received my final paycheck today. Along with the money, the envelope also included a short, but heartfelt note of goodbye and good luck.

I have always affirmed that everyone needs to work in food service at least once in their lifetime. It is so exceptionally vital for people to understand the toil behind where their food comes from, and the crucial nature of treating workers with respect.

I have also always held the belief that every person needs to work at least one “crappy job” in their life to fully understand the value of hard work, and better understand how difficult the lives are of people who serve them. For some, this crappy-job experience intersects with their food service job experience.

When I first started working in September, and even through the duration of my employment, I passionately disliked the job. It was what I deemed could satisfy the “crappy job experience” requirement from my mandatory life-experiences chart. I hated having no time to breathe all week, between my four-hour sleep schedule Monday to Friday, and my 6AM call time on weekends. I grew to despise the aroma combination of buttery bagels, fragrant hazelnut coffee, human impatience, and boiling desperation. My perfectionist, hypocritical manager who loved picking out faults like picking daisies—had a special place in my heart, stored among other things that irked me to the ends of the Milky Way. Every time I clocked in, I remembered that my home state of Massachusetts just raised its minimum wage to $11, while I was half a country away, working for about four dollars less. What I hated most of all though, were the people who were disrespectful, haughty, with their noses two inches too high with the aura of ‘I-have-better-places-to-be-you-are-lower-than-pond-scum.’ But by the end, I came to loathe common customers who asked for alterations of menu items, indecisive people who changed their order too often, those who came in five minutes before close—people who had no reason to be loathed.

However, I didn’t realise how fortunate I was to have had that experience. During my final shift, my boss told me the tragic tale of his failure to follow his dreams, dreams that still existed as he mopped the grim floor of the bakery each day. My arrogant manager bid me good luck, and I believe he truly meant it, because he secretly aspires to escape this position to become an engineer one day. My fellow co-worker who split my ‘suffering’ in half over cookies in the break room, even teared up, because as a single mother, she only wishes for an opportunity to do something better with her life.

Reflecting back, I realise that there was no way I could’ve hated my job—not to mention, free coffee and bagels at my whim’s pleasure. More so though, I learned what I truly wish I knew growing up—how valuable every penny is, the bust-your-ass ache behind every dollar earned. I came to appreciate the art of customer service and human interaction. Humbleness was injected into my high-maintenance, diamond-encrusted veins. I was bitched slapped into being more courteous—a moral I needed far before the age of eighteen.

I will now never question nor complain when my food is taking too long. I will never go into a shop or restaurant within an hour of their closing. If my order is wrong, I will no longer put up the sass face to the person behind the counter, simply to empty my container of stresses into another vessel for the day. Employers—baristas, cashiers, waitresses, hosts—they are all people, too. Corporations are the dance moms, plotting and bickering behind the wings–putting their children, ignorant and oblivious, out onto the stage for the world to observe, criticise, and boss around. There is a certain necessity for us as humans to be gentle with our fellow humans.

I deem myself lucky because I only had to hold this position for four months. There are innumerous people who suffer at job they hate for one, two, ten, or a lifetime of years. However, in this sense, I wouldn’t call myself “lucky,” because I made the active decision to leave—to make a change when I felt stagnant and dissatisfied. I in no way regret the time spent working my ‘crappy’ minimum wage job, but I learned the skills I hoped to gain, then decided it was time for a the next step.

I now work as a daycare teacher and a high school writing coach—jobs geared toward my future plans to be an English teacher and writer. I can honestly and proudly say, I absolutely love both jobs.

I may still be a baby, ignorant to the realities of the world, but I truly hope I will never have to compromise when I comes to my career. I demand that every job I hold be one that makes me unusually, giddily happy, because I can’t imagine a future where that doesn’t hold true. This may be a naïve, lofty goal, but my hopes are that this is not entirely unrealistic.