I send invoices like prayers.
Gentle. Hopeful. Read at 3:14am and never replied to.

They say freelancing is freedom.
Yeah  the kind of freedom where you’re free to starve creatively.
Free to chase clients like you’re the debt collector and the therapist.
Free to do five people’s jobs for the price of exposure and a thank-you emoji.

“Can you lower the rate?”
Sure.
Let me just lower my rent, appetite, and expectations while I’m at it.

They want high-end branding on a food court budget.
They say “quick job” and send revisions like Morse code.
They want magic, then ask for the wand back.

I’m not underqualified. I’m underpaid.
By people who don’t understand the value of time.
Of skill.
Of soul-squeezing work that happens alone at 2am while the world sleeps and you’re still photoshopping the logo they weren’t sure about.

And the worst part?
I said yes.
I keep saying yes.
Because my rent doesn’t care about boundaries.
Because “self-employed” sounds sexier than “perpetually anxious with a Canva tab open.”

They think I’m free because I don’t clock in.
But I clock in with every unread email.
Every “Just one last tweak.”
Every time I price fairly and they ghost me like I cursed their ancestors.

Still, I show up.
Laptop cracked. Deadlines humming.
Because the grind has no HR.
No safety net.
Just coffee and courage and a file named Final_FINAL_revised(3).psd.

This isn’t complaining.
It’s just math.
Work minus pay equals resentment.
Passion divided by bills equals burnout.

And yet, I’m still here.
Underpaid.
But not undervalued.
Not by me anyway.