Written by Rose Davis. Graphics by Rose Davis.
“Do what you love, and you’ll never work a day in your life” is probably the worst career advice I’ve received.
The first time I read that quote was in my English 123 class while I was also enrolled in my first-ever film course at SCAD. I arrived at college with dreams of becoming the next Greta Gerwig, hoping to disrupt the industry, revolutionize storytelling and carve out space for women in film. But a nagging, hopeless thought trailed behind me through the halls of Hamilton and into every lonely script rewrite session: I don’t feel like doing this. I’d try to shake it off, tell myself to power through. I worked hard to be here—so why wasn’t it clicking? If I loved film, why did it still feel like work?
I grew up believing that passion would protect me from burnout—that if I followed my heart, I’d always feel fulfilled. That illusion shattered quickly. I’ve since realized that you shouldn’t just do what you love; you should do what you’re skilled at. Because when your talent and your effort meet? That’s where love can grow.
Entering the creative industry comes with a lot of invisible labor. Ideation, experimentation, execution, it’s constant. Even when you step away from the workspace, your mind is still sketching. You don’t just clock out of creativity. Because our work draws from personal experience, culture and identity, it can feel like you’re pouring yourself into every project. That’s why I believe that even as a creative, you must accept this truth: Your process is still a job. And jobs, even dream ones, will feel like work. That doesn’t mean you’re not passionate, and it most certainly doesn’t mean you’ve failed.
For me, film was too sacred to monetize. It’s the language of my childhood, the heartbeat of who I am. But turning it into labor drained the joy from it. Storytelling is still what I love most in the world; I just found a different outlet. Graphic design came naturally for me. It allowed me to do creative work that felt structured, fulfilling and free. I chose stability, and in that choice, my art became mine again—not my paycheck.
I didn’t walk away from film because I stopped loving it. I walked away because I loved it too much to make it my job.
