Your Job used to impress people. That era just ended

Sarah fumbles through her purse one more time, hoping her keys will somehow materialize. They don't. She’s standing outside her apartment door in her Tribeca high-rise, clutching her phone with the locksmith's number already dialed.

"Emergency lockout? Yeah, that'll be $550. Plus $200 service fee for after 6 PM." The voice on the other end sounds almost bored. "I can be there in an hour."

$750. Sarah's stomach drops. She'd been locked out of her old apartment four years ago—same situation, different building. Back then, it cost her $250, and she'd complained about that being highway robbery. Now she's staring at triple the price, and the guy on the phone delivers it like he's reading the weather.

Sarah was annoyed, but not shocked. She'd just read an article about how skilled tradesmen like locksmiths were so in demand—and in such short supply—that many of them were doubling or tripling their rates overnight.

Six months ago, when she was pulling in $180K as a marketing director at a fintech company, that would have been an annoying expense. Now, with her severance dwindling and no job prospects in sight, it's a financial emergency.

Her role was eliminated in what they called a “workforce optimization.” Not because the company was struggling—they'd actually posted record profits last quarter. Her entire department had been replaced by an AI tool that could generate campaign strategies, write ad copy, and analyze consumer data faster than her whole team combined. Twenty-seven people laid off in a single Zoom call. "The future of efficient marketing," the CEO had said.

When the locksmith arrives, Sarah is waiting in the lobby with her laptop balanced on her knees, frantically applying to jobs that probably don’t exist anymore. A neighbor had let her in, but she still couldn’t get into her unit.

"How do you like living here?" the locksmith asks as they step into the elevator. He's maybe mid-thirties, wearing work clothes that have seen better days.

"It's okay," Sarah says, trying to sound casual. She doesn't want to gush about the building's amenities to someone who probably can't afford to live here.

He nods, glancing around the gleaming interior of the building. “Just closed on a unit here myself. Twenty-third floor. Two-bedroom.”

Sarah blinks. She rents a studio on the fifth floor and can barely make the payments. "Oh wow, you're moving in? That's exciting."

He chuckles, setting down his toolkit as they reach her door. “Nah, I live out in Jersey. This is just investment property.”

Investment property. She'd always assumed her MBA and strategic thinking made her indispensable. Apparently, the only indispensable person here was the guy who could get her back into her own home.

The lock clicks open. "$750," he says, handing her the receipt. "Cash or card?"

This scene might feel like science fiction, but it's a projection that's becoming more plausible by the day. Millions of former office workers are about to flood the job market just as AI becomes sophisticated enough to handle most knowledge work tasks. Meanwhile, the jobs that require physical presence, manual dexterity, and human touch—the ones we can't automate away—suddenly become the scarcest and most valuable resources in the economy.

We're potentially witnessing the early stages of something that happens maybe once every few centuries: a complete inversion of our economic hierarchy. And most of us aren't prepared for what that means—not just financially, but psychologically.

Think about the stories we tell ourselves about success and failure. Success looks like bragging that your kid got into law school, celebrating a promotion to vice president of marketing, or announcing a new job as a senior data analyst at a Fortune 500 company. Failure looks like having to explain that your daughter became a dental hygienist instead of going to medical school, or feeling embarrassed when people find out you're an elevator repair technician rather than a software engineer, or that you work as a funeral director instead of pursuing that MBA.

We've built an entire social structure around the idea that "thinking" jobs trump "doing" jobs. That degrees matter more than skills. That working with your mind is inherently more valuable than working with your hands. But what happens when the "thinking" jobs disappear and only the "doing" jobs remain?

It's not just about money—it's about identity. Status. The answer you give at cocktail parties when someone asks what you do for a living.

Imagine telling your parents you're leaving your marketing career to become a fiber optic installer. Today, that feels like a step down. In five years? It might be the smartest career move you could make.

Photo by Anastasia Shishova

This kind of seismic shift isn't without precedent. History offers us a striking parallel from the 14th century, when another massive disruption turned the world upside down. Except instead of artificial intelligence displacing knowledge workers, it was the Black Death decimating the labor force.

Before 1347, Europe operated under a rigid feudal system that had remained virtually unchanged for centuries. At the bottom were the peasants and serfs—the vast majority of the population—who worked the land for subsistence wages. They had no leverage, no options, no way to negotiate. Labor was abundant and cheap. A peasant who complained about working conditions could easily be replaced by any of the thousands of others desperate for work.

At the top sat the nobility and landowners, who controlled vast estates and lived off the surplus generated by peasant labor. The hierarchy was as fixed as the seasons. Everyone knew their place, and no one questioned it. This was simply how the world worked.

Then came the Black Death.

Between 1347 and 1351, the plague killed an estimated 30 to 60 percent of Europe's population. Entire villages were wiped out. In some regions, the death toll reached 80 percent. But the plague didn't kill indiscriminately—it disproportionately affected the poor, who lived in crowded, unsanitary conditions.

Suddenly, the abundant supply of cheap labor vanished overnight.

Landowners who had spent centuries taking peasant labor for granted now found themselves with vast estates and no one to work them. Crops rotted in the fields. The powerful nobles who had never had to negotiate with anyone below their station were suddenly desperate for workers.

And the surviving peasants? They finally had something they'd never possessed before: leverage.

For the first time in generations, peasants could make demands. They could walk away from one lord and find work with another who offered better conditions. They could negotiate for higher wages, more food, better treatment. The same work that had barely kept them alive before the plague now commanded premium compensation.

The transformation was swift and dramatic. Within a generation, many former serfs had accumulated enough wealth to buy land of their own. Some even rose to positions of political influence. The rigid hierarchy that had defined European society for centuries simply... crumbled.

I'm not comparing skilled tradespeople to medieval peasants—that would be both inaccurate and insulting. What I'm comparing is the economic dynamic: a sudden scarcity of certain workers that completely upends established power structures. The peasants weren't lesser people—they just lacked leverage. Today's skilled trades workers aren't gaining leverage because they're somehow "better" than knowledge workers—they're gaining it because their skills happen to be irreplaceable right now.

The parallels to our current moment are striking. Just as the Black Death created a sudden scarcity of manual laborers, AI is creating a sudden abundance of displaced knowledge workers while leaving certain skilled trades completely untouched.

The signs of this flip are already becoming visible. While tech companies have announced hundreds of thousands of layoffs since 2022, skilled trades face severe worker shortages. According to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics, employment in construction and extraction occupations is projected to grow by over 380,000 jobs between 2023 and 2033, but current training programs are producing far fewer graduates than needed.

The aviation industry offers a particularly stark example. Boeing projects that North America will need around 192,000 new aircraft maintenance technicians over the next 20 years, but current training programs aren't even close to meeting that demand. Airlines are scrambling for talent—PSA Airlines, for example, is offering sign‑on and experience bonuses up to $32,500 for maintenance technicians—perks that many corporate professionals would admire.

Meanwhile, other specialized trades see similar shortages. These aren't minimum-wage jobs. Wind turbine technicians can earn six-figure salaries, and the most skilled ultrasound technicians are turning away shifts.

Community colleges are responding to demand. Enrollment in career and technical education programs in New York State for example, has grown by 37% between the 2016–17 and 2021–22 school years, even as overall higher education enrollment has declined.

At the same time, the jobs traditionally seen as prestigious are becoming increasingly precarious. Through May of this year, U.S. employers announced nearly 700,000 job cuts—the highest since 2020. Technology has been one of the hardest‑hit sectors, alongside significant reductions in media, government, and finance.

The contrast is becoming impossible to ignore: while knowledge workers face an increasingly competitive job market, skilled trades workers have leverage they haven't enjoyed in generations.

Let's stop being polite about this. What we're really talking about here is a fundamental reimagining of class in America.

Americans love to pretend class doesn't exist in this country. We use euphemisms like "socioeconomic status" and talk about "income levels" instead of acknowledging the obvious: we absolutely have a class system, and it's been built on some very specific assumptions about what kinds of work create what kinds of lives.

For decades, the formula was simple: blue-collar jobs kept you working class, white-collar jobs made you middle class. Factory work might pay well, but it was still factory work. Even when autoworkers could afford houses and college for their kids, there was still an invisible hierarchy that said office jobs were "better."

Then we shipped those factory jobs overseas, and millions of families discovered what happens when your path to middle-class stability disappears. Entire communities built around manufacturing never recovered. The social fabric that connected work to identity to belonging just unraveled.

Now we might be looking at the reverse scenario. What happens when white-collar jobs vanish and the "blue-collar" work becomes the only path to financial security? When the electrician outearns the marketing director, when the dental hygienist has more job security than the data analyst?

This isn't just about individual career changes. It's about the entire infrastructure of how Americans build middle-class lives. The college-to-office-job pipeline wasn't just about paychecks—it was about accessing a whole system of benefits, social connections, and cultural capital that came with white-collar work.

If that pipeline breaks down, what replaces it? Do we get a new version of middle-class life built around skilled trades? Do the social markers of success shift to match the economic reality? Or do we end up with a massive population of over-educated, under-employed people clinging to status symbols that no longer match their bank accounts?

But the real disruption isn't economic—it's psychological.

For generations, we've used job titles as social shorthand for intelligence, worth, and life trajectory. Meeting someone new at a party? "What do you do?" is usually the second question, right after "What's your name?" The answer determines how the conversation unfolds, how much respect you command, even who wants to continue talking to you.

This system works fine when everyone agrees on the rules. But what happens when those rules suddenly flip?

Imagine the cognitive dissonance of explaining to your college friends that you left your marketing director job to become a postpartum doula—not because you had some spiritual awakening, but because it pays better and has more job security. Or telling your parents that your MBA is essentially worthless, but your neighbor who became an elevator repair technician just bought a vacation home.

The identity crisis runs deeper than individual career choices. Entire families have built their sense of worth around being "college families" or "professional families." What happens to that identity when college becomes a liability and professional jobs disappear?

Some people will adapt quickly. They'll retrain, pivot, find new sources of meaning and status. But others will cling to the old hierarchy long after it's stopped making sense. They'll take unpaid internships at prestigious companies rather than paid apprenticeships as jewelry repair specialists. They'll accumulate more degrees instead of learning to become sign language interpreters.

The psychological adjustment may be hardest for those who've spent decades climbing the white-collar ladder. A 45-year-old former VP of sales doesn't just lose a job when they're laid off—they lose the entire lens through which they understood their place in the world.

Meanwhile, that stage lighting technician who's always felt slightly defensive about working in production instead of finance? Suddenly they're the one with leverage, financial security, and options. The tables don't just turn—they flip completely over.

The most unsettling part of this transition isn't that it's happening—it's how quickly it could happen. These economic flips don't announce themselves with gradual warning signs. They arrive like avalanches: slowly, then all at once.

Look at how fast entire industries have collapsed before. The music industry went from selling billions of CDs to a streaming economy in less than a decade. A quarter of newsroom jobs disappeared between 2008 and 2020. Retail was once a pillar of the American economy, with shopping centers and big-box stores anchoring communities across the country. But that era is fading fast—analysts now predict up to 45,000 U.S. store closures by 2030, as a wave of bankruptcies and shifting consumer habits reshape the landscape.

Each time, people working in those industries saw the early warning signs but assumed they had more time to adapt. They figured the changes would be gradual enough to navigate slowly. That their experience and expertise would insulate them from the worst disruptions.

They were wrong.

The AI revolution is moving even faster than those previous shifts. Large language models that couldn't write a coherent paragraph two years ago are now drafting legal briefs, creating marketing campaigns, and analyzing complex data sets. The technology isn't improving incrementally—it's advancing exponentially.

Meanwhile, the trades can't be rushed or automated at the same pace. You can't train a sonographer with a six-week bootcamp. Becoming an electrical lineman requires certification and hands-on experience. Funeral directors need extensive training and licensing. These careers have built-in moats that knowledge work lacks.

The people best positioned for this flip are those who recognize it early and start preparing now—not in five years when the competition for apprenticeship programs becomes fierce, but today when spots are still available and the stigma of "choosing trades over college" hasn't completely flipped.

Because once the avalanche starts, there's no time to get out of the way. You're either already positioned on higher ground, or you're scrambling for safety with everyone else who waited too long to move.

So what does it actually look like to live through this kind of flip?

For one thing, every assumption you've made about success and failure gets scrambled. The conversations at dinner parties become awkward in new ways. Do you still feel impressed when someone mentions they're a lawyer? Do you feel sorry for them instead? When your friend's kid graduates with a business degree, is that still good news?

The social recalibration will be messier than the economic one. Entire communities have organized themselves around certain professions carrying prestige. Think about the neighborhoods where everyone works in finance, or the social circles built around tech careers. What happens to those dynamics when the underlying status hierarchy crumbles?

Dating and marriage patterns could shift dramatically too. Right now, educational and professional similarity often drives romantic partnerships. But in a world where the successful funeral director out-earns the struggling consultant, how do people navigate those relationships? Do parents still hope their children marry doctors and lawyers, or do they start eyeing the electrician’s son?

Even our language will have to evolve. We'll need new ways to signal social status that don't rely on job titles. New ways to feel accomplished that don't depend on climbing corporate ladders that no longer exist.

Perhaps most unsettling is how quickly these mental adjustments will need to happen. Unlike previous economic shifts that unfolded over decades, this one is compressing into years. There won't be time for gradual social adaptation. One day you'll wake up in a world where all your assumptions about work and worth have become obsolete.

The people who thrive won't necessarily be those who saw it coming earliest, but those who can let go of old status markers fastest and embrace new definitions of success.

The truth is, we're all speculating here.

No one knows exactly how this flip will play out, how quickly it will happen, or what the world will look like on the other side. Maybe AI will plateau before it fully replaces knowledge workers. Maybe new types of jobs will emerge that we can't even imagine yet. Maybe the transition will be smoother than we think, or maybe it will be far more chaotic.

The speed of AI advancement is staggering, but that's not even the most important factor. As I've explored before, companies are already replacing workers with AI tools that barely work—not because the technology is ready, but because the narrative of inevitability has taken hold. Whether AI can actually do your job better is irrelevant when executives are making decisions based on investor expectations, not performance.

I realize this analysis centers the anxiety of knowledge workers facing downward mobility for the first time. Blue-collar communities went through their own version of this devastation decades ago when we shipped manufacturing overseas. The difference now isn't that displacement is happening—it's that it's happening to the people who usually write the think pieces about it.

This isn't about trades suddenly becoming “good jobs” and office work becoming “bad jobs.” Skilled labor has always been valuable—we just built a cultural mythology that said otherwise. What's changing isn't the inherent worth of different types of work, but who gets to claim economic security and social respect.

What we do know is that change is coming, and it's coming fast. The old certainties about career paths, education, and success are already starting to crack. The question isn't whether our assumptions about work and worth will be challenged—it's how we'll respond when they are.

Some people will spend their energy fighting to preserve the old hierarchy, insisting that college degrees and professional titles still matter, that the AI revolution is overblown, that things will return to "normal" eventually. They’ll cling to status markers that increasingly mean nothing to anyone but themselves.

Others will find liberation in letting go of those old measures of success altogether. They'll discover that their worth was never actually tied to their job title or LinkedIn headline. They'll realize that a life built around genuine skills, meaningful relationships, and personal fulfillment might be more resilient than one built around climbing ladders that are disappearing anyway.

And let's be honest about the barriers. Not everyone can pivot into skilled trades. Many require significant physical capability, expensive training, geographic flexibility, or breaking through gatekeeping that's kept these fields predominantly white and male for generations. The wind turbine technician earning six figures still faces physical risks and geographic constraints that the remote marketing director never had to consider.

The real question isn't whether everyone should become a plumber. It's whether we can build a society where economic security doesn't depend on performing a specific type of respectability—where your worth isn't tied to impressing strangers at cocktail parties.

The most honest thing we can say is this: we don't know what's coming. But we do know that flexibility, humility, and the ability to redefine success on our own terms will matter more than any particular career choice we make today. I've written before about the identity crisis at the heart of this job market upheaval. However this transformation unfolds, the fundamental challenge remains the same: learning who you are when your job title can no longer define you.

The hierarchy is crumbling. The question is: what will you build in its place?

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