Let's be honest about something nobody outside this industry understands: we hate being chefs. And we love being chefs. At the same time. Sometimes within the same hour. Sometimes in the same goddamn breath.
People think you're either one or the other. You love your job or you hate it. Pick a side.But that's not how it works in kitchens. Love and hate aren't opposites here. They're roommates. They coexist. They feed off each other. And that paradox is what makes this profession so hard to explain to anyone who hasn't lived it.So let's break it down. Why we hate this. Why we love this. And why we can't fucking quit despite knowing better.
Photo by: Willians Huerta
Why We Hate It: The Cost Nobody Talks About
Let's start with the hate because it's easier to quantify. The reasons we hate this job are concrete. Measurable. Undeniable.
We miss everything. Every birthday. Every holiday. Every weekend. Every wedding. Every graduation. Every moment that makes normal people's lives worth living. While everyone else is celebrating, we're working. Always working.Your kid's first recital? You're in service. Your anniversary? You're covering someone's shift. Christmas? New Year's? Valentine's Day? Those are our busiest days. The moments everyone else gets off are the moments we absolutely cannot.We don't just miss events. We miss life. We miss being present for the people who matter. And eventually, they stop inviting us. They stop expecting us. They move on without us because we're never there anyway.
Our bodies are destroyed. By 40, most of us have chronic back pain, destroyed knees, carpal tunnel, burns scarred over burns, cuts that never quite healed right. We've been standing on concrete for 14 hours a day for decades. Our bodies aren't designed for this.We hurt all the time. We just stopped mentioning it because everyone hurts. It's so normalized that complaining seems weak. So we pop painkillers and keep pushing and pretend it's fine until our bodies give out completely.
The pay is insulting. For the skill level required, for the hours demanded, for the sacrifice extracted, we're criminally underpaid. We've dedicated our lives to mastering a craft and most of us make less than people working 40-hour office jobs that require a fraction of our expertise.We can't buy houses. We can't save for retirement. We live paycheck to paycheck despite being highly skilled professionals. And we watch people with easier jobs and less dedication build comfortable lives while we scrape by.
Our relationships fail. The divorce rate in this industry is staggering. How could it not be? We work when everyone else lives. We're exhausted when we're home. We're emotionally drained from giving everything to the kitchen. We have nothing left for the people who love us. Our partners try to understand. But they can't. How could they? They don't know what it's like to operate in sustained crisis mode for hours. They don't understand why we're too tired to talk when we get home. Why we're distant. Why we choose this over them again and again.
The mental health toll is brutal. Depression, anxiety, substance abuse—they're epidemic in kitchens. We self-medicate just to come down from the adrenaline high. We drink to sleep. We use to cope. We normalize dysfunction because everyone around us is equally fucked up.The industry has one of the highest rates of suicide. Think about that. We're literally dying from this job. And we keep showing up anyway.So yeah, we hate this. How could we not? It takes everything and gives back just enough to keep us hooked but never enough to feel whole.
Photo by: Thobile Nhlapo
Why We Love It: The Drug We Can't Quit
But here's the thing nobody outside understands: we also fucking love this.Not despite the cost. Sometimes because of it. The intensity creates something most people never experience. And once you've felt it, everything else feels hollow.
The flow state is addictive. You know that moment during service when everything clicks? When the tickets are flowing and your hands are moving and you're not thinking anymore—you're just executing? When time disappears and the whole world narrows to just the work in front of you?That's flow. That's the zone. That's the high.Most people never experience it. Not once in their entire lives. We get it multiple times a week. When we're deep in service and everything else disappears and we're so locked in that nothing exists except perfect execution.It's almost spiritual. That complete presence. That total absorption. That feeling of being exactly where you're supposed to be, doing exactly what you're meant to do, with zero doubt or distraction.We're addicted to that feeling. And everything else—the pain, the sacrifice, the cost—feels worth it for those moments when we're so dialed in that we transcend our own bullshit and just exist as pure capability.
The identity is intoxicating. We know who we are. That clarity is rare. Most people spend their whole lives wondering what they're supposed to do, where they fit, what their purpose is.We don't wonder. We're chefs. That's not just what we do—it's who we are. It defines us. And that certainty, that solid identity, is powerful.When everything else in life is chaos, when we don't know who we are outside the kitchen, at least we know who we are on the line. We're the person who can handle pressure. Who executes flawlessly. Who leads. Who creates. Who survives.That identity becomes core. We might lose relationships, we might lose financial security, we might lose our health. But we never lose knowing who we are. And in a world where most people are lost, that matters.
The crew becomes family. The people you survive service with aren't just coworkers. They're your people. They're the only ones who get it. Who understand why you're the way you are. Who've seen you at your worst and stuck around anyway.Civilians don't understand us. Our families don't get it. But the crew? They know. They've been through it with you. They've survived the same brutal shifts. They speak the same language. They share the same scars.When your real relationships fail because people can't handle your schedule, your crew is still there. When you have nowhere else you fit, you fit in the kitchen. When you feel disconnected from the normal world, the crew reminds you that you belong somewhere.That bond is real. Forged in actual fire and actual pressure. And most people never find that kind of connection. We have it every shift.
The creative outlet is rare. We get to create something from nothing multiple times a day. We get to take raw ingredients and transform them into experiences. We get to express ourselves through food in ways that actually affect people.How many jobs let you be genuinely creative while also being technical? How many professions require both artistry and precision? How many careers let you see immediate impact—the customer's face when they taste your work?We're artists who work in a medium that's consumed and appreciated in real-time. We create beauty that's temporary but meaningful. And that combination of creation and immediate feedback is incredibly fulfilling.
The competence feels good. We're really fucking good at this. After years of training, after thousands of services, we've achieved mastery. And mastery feels good.When we execute a perfect service, when every plate goes out flawless, when we nail a complex dish under pressure—that competence is deeply satisfying. We're not faking it. We're not pretending. We're genuinely skilled at something difficult.In a world where most people feel inadequate, where imposter syndrome is universal, we have proof of our capability every single night. The work speaks for itself. And that certainty is powerful.
The Paradox That Defines Us
So here's where it gets complicated: we hate this job for the exact same reasons we love it.We hate the intensity. We love the intensity. We hate the sacrifice. We love what the sacrifice creates. We hate missing normal life. We love having something beyond normal life. We hate the toll it takes. We love what it makes us become.The cost and the reward aren't separate. They're the same thing viewed from different angles.
The intensity that destroys our bodies is the same intensity that creates flow states. The sacrifice that ruins relationships is the same sacrifice that creates identity. The abnormal life that isolates us is the same abnormal life that gives us purpose.
You can't have one without the other. The love and the hate are intertwined so completely that separating them would mean losing both.
Photo by: Caleb Oquendo
Why We Can't Quit
People ask why we don't just leave. If it's so bad, why keep doing it?
Because we're addicted. Not to the job itself, but to who we become when we do it. To the moments of flow. To the identity. To the crew. To the feeling of being really fucking good at something hard.We know it's killing us. We know we're sacrificing too much. We know there are easier ways to live. But we can't imagine being anything else. Because nothing else offers what this offers, even with all the cost.We've tried to quit. Many of us have walked away, tried normal jobs, attempted to have regular lives. And it feels empty. Hollow. Like we're pretending to be someone we're not.
Because we're not normal. This job changed us. It shaped us into people who need intensity to feel alive. Who need pressure to function. Who need the kitchen to know who we are.So we come back. We always come back. Even knowing what it costs. Even hating parts of it. Even understanding it's probably destroying us.
Because the alternative living without this.
Feels like dying slowly instead of burning bright.
The Truth Nobody Tells You
This job will take everything you have. Your time. Your body. Your relationships. Your mental health. Your normal life. It demands total commitment and gives back just enough to keep you hooked.
But it also gives you something most people never find. Purpose. Identity. Flow. Mastery. Belonging. Moments of such complete presence that everything else fades away and you're just... here. Fully. Finally.So do we love it or hate it?
Both. Simultaneously. In the same moment. With the same intensity we bring to everything in the kitchen.We hate what it costs. We love what it creates. We hate the sacrifice. We love the result. We hate the toll. We love the transformation.And we keep showing up. Keep cooking. Keep sacrificing. Keep choosing this over everything else.
Not because we're stupid. Not because we don't know better. But because this is who we are now. And being anything else feels like betraying the person we became through all that fire and pressure and pain.
This is the truth about being a chef that nobody outside the kitchen understands. It's not a job. It's not a career. It's an identity forged in conditions that break most people.We hate it. We love it. We can't quit it. We can't fully embrace it.And that paradox? That's just part of being us.
