Social and cultural theorists engage in qualitative and quantitative research to create discourse in various medium about what generations are. Prior to the nineteenth century, in the advent of mass commercialization, a generation was regarded as passing onto family member after family member. The concept of generations as social phenomenon began when technology enabled mass communication. These days, discourse happens so quickly and furiously that discussions seem to be over before they even fully develop. A member of generation Y (millennial) will tell you that things are categorized and labeled and they will label you into a corner. This is the result of the way they received information and their constant

A birth cohort, depending on which sociologist you talk to, is a certain group of people who were born in the same time period of fifteen to twenty years. I was born in the end of 1976, which puts me at the very end of generation x, though squarely in it. I was disappointed to learn this fact, and I tried to research to prove it wrong, but unfortunately, according to every sociologist out there, I am decidedly generation x. My high school years were full of rebellion and a pair of Doc Martins which I painted silver, followed by very large pants, tiny tee shirts with silly characters. It was the end of the generation x that I represented and the older x’ers didn’t accept me but my younger counterparts didn’t either. This alienation and this in between me officially dub, or name MillenX. Writers get to name generations, so I’m making up a generation and naming it. How very MillenX of me. Sure others have come before me to name us the same thing, and my point can be both labeled by generation Y and criticized to death by my older generation x ers, but I stand by my creation of this cohort category. My other millexers are busy doing work of consequence, and I am simply a writer.

It seems that popular culture has more to do with naming and cultivating discourse and that figures which predominate this realm have more power to create the discourse due to the fact that collective consciousness now within birth cohorts seems to be of corporate creation. We experience that which we watch. Online. On television. This is common knowledge, but what isn’t and what corporate America doesn’t want us to know is that fact that there is a huge cultural divide between the two birth cohorts which were originally planned by the great trade machines that be to work together.

  Generation X, was founded on certain shared experiences and discourse within the birth cohort which started in 1961 and ended in 1981. It seems fitting that writers and other cultural figures would have the most influence on naming and defining Generation X than cultural theorists. Generation Y has a tendency to believe that perception is reality, whereas generation x has to have a tangibly reality to relate its experience to. The rise of the internet happened during the gen xer’s coming of age whereas Y grew up with it. This has everything to do with what perception was and is to a certain individual.  Growing up seeing the Berlin wall coming down on television was a different experience than being able to access it whenever on the internet. The generation that just YouTube’s it doesn’t understand the value of actual tangible reality versus perception and that becomes a prominent topic of the cultural divide between x and y.

  In literature, there have been movements such as the Ba Ling Huo in China which is comprised of people who were born in the eighties. Such novels as “Beijing Doll” are representative of this movement. China is a good example of a youth movement emerging as a culture itself in reference to a changing world culture. A Chinese generation X member grew up with a different view of the world than one born in the eighties. Their world view was that of fighting for freedom

Buzzfeed.com is certainly not the only source of information for news and commentary out there, but many members of generation Y are taking internet information as Gospel without checking and re-checking facts which can be problematic. At least Wikipedia admits to you ahead of time that the information might need to be fact checked. And then what is fact checking but going to another internet source that may or may not be correct.

Different attitudes in the workplace are interesting to study due to the “caged” nature of the sample of populous. When William Strauss and Neil Howe (the most contemporary sociologists studying generations) came up with their theories of generations as social constructs, it is not surprising that they spurned an industry of consulting for companies. They began studying the social concept of corporate America as not only a war zone, but also started to realize that there was a cultural divide between x and millennial.

An example of this that was of particular interest to me was my work in the summer of 2009 at a car dealership in upstate New York. It was the summer of “Cash for Clunkers”, the summer when Barack Obama made headlines offering cash incentives to dealerships and individuals to get “gas guzzling” vehicles off the road and replaced with more fuel efficient vehicles. The workers that the dealership employed represented generations x and y almost equally, which I swore was at the behest of the Federal Government, but in fact was not. Everyone my age congregated and spoke of shared cultural landmarks, but we were not allowed to let this show for fear of the younger workers feeling left out.

The work force grew to include several generations in order to attract the most business. I was, of course thrown to the proverbial wolves working with generation Y. They are presumed to be more tech savvy, which of course they are, which of course annoys me to no end. Now I am a bit more tech savvy than they think, but not much. Whenever I even went near a computer there was the snickering assumption that I couldn’t operate it as well as they could. In my case this assumption is true, and mind you there are generation x members that can run programming circles around generation Y, but not I.

 The real problem with the culture of generation Y that is problematic is the proverbial labeling of everything. Everything is put into a category and then dismissed with impunity as if it never existed if the perception wasn’t labeled for them. Coming up with their own labels for things just doesn’t occur to them. Unless they are being hired to come up with a new website and they have to think of hyperlinks for sections. For example, when I asked a generation Y artist working at a coffee shop what she thought of generation x she was decidedly cautious and asked what type of article I was writing and I told her I was pursuing information about her generation and immediately the words op-ed came out of her mouth and the shutting down of emotion started. It was as if through labeling, she had put her opinion on a shelf where all the other people would have their opinions. The fact that I wanted her own opinion about what type of article it was did not register. I felt the agony of defeat as I went over and called a generation x friend and of course she said “yea. They label everything.”



 Education of birth cohorts and the available technology within them started the cultural experience of generations which we now know today. According to social scientists, generations are birth cohorts which span certain time periods and share a certain set of physical realities which shape their experiences, thus creating a certain collective -consciousness which sets to define them as a group. Scientifically, they are birth groups that span twenty year periods. Why twenty years? What do I have in common with a generation xer that was born in 1961 when I myself was born in 1976? Interestingly enough I have more in common with the generation x member who was born in 1961. The answer has more to do with education than anything else. Shifts in technology have happened so rapidly that my high school taught me on a typewriter and literally started teaching the students only a few years after me on a computer. Hence: a cultural divide between me and my generation Y counterparts. Mostly, I have experienced this in the workplace where I have seen people only five years or even three years younger than myself tell bosses behind my back that I lack the necessary skills and that I should be fired. Be that as it may, the aspect of a “team player” and having respect for elders has seemed to die with generation x. Although many companies (according to Forbes magazine) warn against “fetishizing” younger workers due to their perceived mastery over newer technologies. Many other human resource theorists say that although generation x members are perceived to have a less cost effective presence in the workplace they have more influence over social movements and the arts. This could be due to the fact that art demands uniqueness of perspective and lower birth cohorts have the angle due to the fact that growing up, they were far more alienated and this very alienation lends itself to the artistic

The difference between myself and the millennial? A value system based on an acquired collective conscience and set of experiences. In Karl Jung’s Memories, Dreams and Reflections, he speaks of a consciousness born of collective identity built by social influences that people share in common.   I grew up on hip hop which Jung would consider not just a common thread between myself and other generations, but also it would set the tone for a an even greater truth: that identity which I share with all generation x ers has grown into an identity which the next generation wishes for and doesn’t achieve. The alienation of the hip hop generation is not something that generation y will ever feel. Their sense of loneliness is different from ours. Therefore, I’m socialized differently than my parents. Clearly certain birth cohorts are trained differently in the education system due to the fact that school districts are allocated certain amounts of money for education of their children. For example: the parking lot of my high school was half the size that it is today: Why? More students, more tax revenue, bigger community etc. My typewriter Marketing and education could be the culprits.

Writers have a way of romanticizing everything, because that’s the job of any good fiction writer. Douglas Coupland (one of the eldest of generation x) helped coin the term with his novels and their disenfranchised tone with an artistic and outskirts malaise.

The Romance often ends with members of generation Y (the generation for which technology is a given). Generation X, though mostly tech savvy is often viewed by their younger piers as unable to utilize technology albeit an often alluring and techno-centric generation, sometimes the human touch just isn’t there in the cultural sense. Being raised largely by their Baby Boomer parents who may have deemed their generation x children the “black sheep”, they tend to take a dim view of generation x in the workplace and in the consumer market place. They often will test their older counter parts patience with a lack of respect and a sense of entitlement coupled with an assumption of incompetence. This usually angers the older worker and thus creates a divide in an organization.

Politically, generation X considers that the social movements, in particular the gay rights movement as we know it today, the feminist movement as we know it today and several others began with them. It could be argued that Baby Boomers had the strength in numbers to initiate change in terms of making the populous at large aware of the industrial military complex and its strangle hold on society( i.e. fighting Vietnam with peaceful protests etc.) Coming of age in the 1990s meant that you were on either side of the fence. Whilst generation Y takes credit for being more socially progressive, they do not take notice of their generation x antecedents who initiated the social changes which the Baby Boomers take credit for, yet failed to bring about. Certainly the advent of the internet made being an outsider with an unpopular opinion much easier bear.

Author - Nora A Bunk

American life is full of pressure to buy goods, drug ads are on television all the time. Access to vegetables and fruits that could never grow in the cold is obvious every day at our supermarkets. Those who want to buy local and support sustainable agriculture face a formidable challenge when it comes to buying things like orange juice in the winter.

 When I studied in Hull, United Kingdom, I was shocked when I went to their “supermarket”. There were no vegetables that didn’t look brown or yellow, and packages of foods lied about the contents. When I asked why I was allotted only one glass of orange juice per day at the mess hall, a lugubrious worker retorted “we don’t have Florida”.  Imagine my dismay at the grocery when I went to buy orange juice and was given orange soda. When I went to the counter, the cashier explained that I would have to buy real orange.

My fellow student from Ohio explained to me that not only was there no FDA in England there was also no guarantee of free speech so I should watch my complaining about orange juice. Also, transportation of goods was much more expensive in England due to the shortage of gasoline.

The American Food and Drug Administration was founded in 1906 after the popular novel “The Jungle” by Upton Sinclair exposed the filthy conditions and human rights violations that were occurring in the meat packing industry which culminated in the Wiley Act. Like all corruption in all industries, the food industry wants more profits and uses tools such as pumping hormones and antibiotics into cattle, and using other chemicals to increase food production. We ingest these hormones in our foods, and we are forced to live with the reality that the chemical balance in our bodies is thrown off without our knowledge.

 Growing up I never saw drug ads on television. I would go to the doctor and I would ask him what to do, and he would write me a script for what was best for the condition that I was actually there to have treated.  The insurgence of commercialized psychiatric medications (such as Prozac, Ritalin and others) created a huge market for the pharma industry. A great way to make people buy is to either scare them or make them think something will make them healthier. Enticement also works, and of course the old adage applies, sex sells. That accounts for all the marketing of Viagra. I remember when Prozac changed everything. Dinner table conversations at my mom’s at Thanksgiving were full of incredulous talk of people using Prozac and performing better at everything.

George Orwell’s novel, 1984, was about the government taking control of people’s thoughts.  There have been countless blogs and other writing about the mind control that the pharmaceutical industry and the government impose.  The NSA came under fire for its wiretapping of international officials and the public responded with outcries of governmental control of people’s private lives. How paranoid is too paranoid?

The bribery of doctors has been a mainstay in the United States for a long time, but has been building up to a ridiculous degree since the 1990s. Doctors are offered trips, lunches and endless perks for prescribing drugs. Samples are given to doctors to help them prescribe to patients. Endless times I was told to take a certain drug for my conditions throughout the years and I was given free samples of drugs such as Prozac, Zoloft and the like. Since 2002, regulations started and companies have been forced to reign in the blatant bribery of doctors in the United States.

Large pharmaceutical companies such as Glaxo Smith Kline have come under scrutiny and even police action of late. Recently the Chinese government detained consultants and staffers of the company in an effort to curb the blatant bribery and corruption which leads to the dangerous high level commodification of patient care. China, in its murky waters financial environment has been accused of over utilizing law enforcement to eliminate competition. Nevertheless, several companies operating in China and other nations around the world are cutting down on the bribery of Doctors to increase the number of prescriptions. Although these legal restrictions, albeit landmark, are not the long term solution for a generation addicted to legal drugs.

A paranoid would say that there are connections between big Agra (large companies which mass produce food and put hormones in cattle), big pharma and the “big brother” government agencies spying and gathering information on citizens and their habits.

I say that the world is an ever changing place where companies use the “wild West” model- that is to say that they make as much money as possible and get away with as much as possible before getting shut down, thus has been the American way for longer than a century. Having lived in the wake of the terror attacks, however, I am willing to trade privacy for more security, but for the people who were wrongly targeted or accused it was a travesty.

The delicate balance between security and control has be struck for centuries, but the cost may be too high. We will never know what might have happened had the government not implemented the controls that it had.

Author: Nora Bunk

Read Life in wake of Terrorism from author where she reminiscence about 9/11 disaster.

Walking down the streets of New York today, you would never think that the same streets back in 01 were covered in white powder made up of steel and pulverized materials from the world trade center, or that the calm streets were once under complete marital law imposed by the Federal Government. I spent my coming of age years in the wake of the world trade center attacks in New York. I lived in Little Haiti in Brooklyn at the time and worked as a security guard at a Museum. Before that, in the spring of 01, I had been working as a waitress at a Bulgarian restaurant on West Fourth in the West Village with a superior view of the World Trade Center towers.  I would often stare at their sublime majesty and imagine working inside the buildings. It was the spring of 2001, and I had no idea what was to become of my life in the wake of the worst terrorist attack the world had ever seen. There had never been an attack of that scale on American soil to date. Naturally, after that day, the country had its doubts about the day to day security of living in New York, and little did I know I would live with terror alerts at levels as high as the deadly readings of air quality.

                                                                                *

Memories of going to Jones beach with my fellow security guards from the Museum faded away like a childhood sandbox as we were assembled that fateful morning. I had already heard at my post, which was the modern art department that day. As I studied Autumnal Rhythms by Jackson Pollock, I was interrupted by a fellow guard running in screaming that the world trade center had been hit by planes. Shortly thereafter, the heads of the security team gathered us and announced that the staff members had left the building but the security team was to stay and protect the building.

It hit me emotionally just as I had been hit as a child by an enormous wave at the ocean on vacation in New Jersey. I had been swept and rolled under with the wave, thrown like a golf ball and then spat back out again onto the beach, covered with sand and seaweed. The city that I had dreamt of living in my entire life, which my family all hailed from, was being destroyed.  Earlier that summer, I had been offered a temporary position in one of the offices in the second tower, as if by some stroke of miracle, I escaped death by being offered a security position at the museum. My mind flashed to the memory of looking up at those towers, two chunks of my dreams which stood for the America I had been taught to want.

That day’s sticky end of summer heat clung to my temples; the cell phone signals had been knocked out because the towers had held the transmitter. By some miracle my cell signal worked, apparently because my company’s receiver was elsewhere. Eight messages that day. All my mother and father. Not the romantic partner that I had left back in England at School. To a person in their early twenties, it was too much to bear that there was only family on that voice mail.

When I was finally done with work that day, which seemed like an eternity, I was lucky enough to have family who received me on the upper- East Side where I was working. It was only a short walk to my aunt and Uncle’s apartment and I gave the doorman my identity and was shown to the elevator. As the mirrored doors of the elevator closed I realized my incredible luck. I had seen glimmers here and there as I caught the footage on television of the streams of people trying to get home to the outer boroughs walking across the Brooklyn bridge en- masse- a throng of the worried and harried trying to reach their homes. Desperate for safety and longing for comfort. Comfort that I guiltily had on the Upper East Side- safe and sound. I didn’t dare try to reach my little apartment in Little Haiti – the thought of even trying to return there was not even entertained, per my family and my just underneath high intelligence. All I had there was a futon and some clothing- which I didn’t need because I wore a uniform to work. My life at that time was all contained neatly in my Manhattan portage messenger bag which I clung to until my fingers sweat into its black writing, making my fingers grey and the backpack’s writing smudged.

The next few days were just this horrible waiting until the subway which passed under the trade center had been cleared enough to return to my temporary Brooklyn abode which, interestingly enough was located next to a voodoo house of worship. As I boarded the train on the upper- east side, my surroundings reflected my own sense of doom and fear which overcame me as I walked onto the platform and boarded the Brooklyn bound green line. As the doors shut I watched my fellow passengers and what struck me most was not the everyday diversity which I would often study, but rather the uniformity of expression and tension. Everyone, from the stock broker with the highest grossing commission to the homeless dreadlocked, and stinking resident of the train, was feeling the same ominous weight of emotion. It developed and congealed into a collective consciousness which culminated into a mutual stare as we all watched with mouths agape as we passed through the tunnel where the attack had occurred. The fluorescent lights reflected on what looked exactly like snow, three inches of which covered the subway benches and the platforms and filled us all with the same sense of dread. The smell of the subway changed and slowly the entire car became aware of the choking stench of the dead, and pieces of metal. The “snow” was of course the debris from the towers, not yet cleared out of the fateful spot, where the planes had hit just two short days prior.

The next week I walked around dazed and sullen as it dawned on me that the towers, which had stood for me just two months ago as a beacon of hope, were no longer there. When I first arrived in the city I stood outside serving the guests of a small restaurant in the West village from which the trade center was in full view. Those towers were my vantage point and a symbol of everything that I had left home to find.

“Mom, someday I’m going to work in those towers. “ I proclaimed sharply as I dreamt of success that would never come.

My safety that morning was serendipitous because that week I had been late twice. And each time I had found myself right underneath the world trade center towers, desperately hailing a cab to get myself uptown on time to report for duty at the Met. That fateful morning, I was actually early and taking a run around the central park reservoir.

                                                                                *

                When I ran up to the officer on duty and presented the sweaters and pants that I had collected from my apartment’s storage area depths, the clothes that I had shrunk out of in my mid- twenties crisis slump of depression, I almost wept as I gazed past the honeycomb and smoking wreckage.

“I’m not in charge here, you have to talk to them.” The dutiful NYPD officer pointed to a makeshift tent area wherein many obviously sleep deprived men in suits lingered hopelessly awaiting orders from superiors.

I approached them timidly and stretched out my arm, full of hope as I handed the man in a ruffled grey suit with a name tag which bore the eagle in a hologram and his name. It was a Midwestern solid name which didn’t strike me as memorable, but his voice gained my attention as my heart started to race.

“You know we are really busy here and you were supposed to go to the Red Cross tent like everyone else. “ He said angrily, I thought I my legs would start running without my brain’s consent.

“Um, they are just some donations I thought the volunteers or workers would start getting cold at night…” I stammered on as the overworked Federal worker sized me up.

“Wait here.” He said shortly as I stood, frozen in time, falling into sheer anxiety as I realized the error I had made.

Twenty incredibly long minutes later I stood still in the same spot, terrified of what would happen. Would I be arrested for trespassing in a newly federal zone? Would I bear the indelible mark of the idiot wanting to do well?  After the man gave me an itemized ticket and told me that it was the best thing I had ever done, I ran into the subway, went through the turn stile and took my seat, riding into the next millennium.

                                                                                *

In the weeks and months thereafter, the smell of death was what lingered to remind the once again functioning city of what took place. Attacks on Muslims, although forbidden by law, were unfortunately commonplace and many formerly open minded New Yorkers found themselves becoming racist monsters in the name of avenging the dead. One coffee shop dweller rambled on about Arabs calling them the proverbial “towel heads” and proclaiming himself innocent of racism because his friends’ life had been taken. I, ever the observer, simply listened and took it all in. Perhaps this was my function in life and I was simply here to observe these sublime happenings and record them in my mind’s eye forever. All the events of that day melded together in my mind as I stood on the dirty subway platforms in the weeks that followed, choking along with everyone on the stench of death and metal. All I could see was the smoke pluming from the honey comb mess downtown when I ran out of the green line to find a friend or get a cab.

                                                                                *

When I look at my eight month old daughter these days back in Albany, I see a bit of myself in New York in my twenties. I think about not only how lucky I am to not have worked in the towers, but about how lucky I am to have lived through that horror in New York and come out the other side. When I see my child laugh, I see the hope I had for myself back then and I realize, I survived.

Author : Nora Bunk


Read also Big Agra, Big Pharma and Big Brother post from the author.

When I was a child, I did not dream of being a writer. My dad would tell me how much I wanted to be an action star, then a nun, then a teacher, a TV actress and back to being a teacher. He would always laugh at my boyish nature and taught me how to play basketball, for he wanted to have a son and got a daughter.

As I grew up, I realized that my father was not the man I thought he was. He was using drugs, having mistresses, using up all of my mom’s savings and worst of all, he hurt my mother. I was a child, and I didn't know what to do except to go to school so that the pain can go away. I studied and studied and secluded myself from outsiders. My friends can be counted in my 5 fingers. I did not know hot play active games. I read books fit for people 5 years older than me. I wallowed in the pain by reading and reading until my eyes got hurt.

Because, I read a lot, I have learned to write when I was 12 years old. It was my teacher who told me I had a potential and talked to me about my life. Her name was Grace. She knew what I was going through and she encouraged me to write my feelings always, so I could have an escape.

Ten long years after that, I am still writing. But now, I am more open to conversation, to love, to care, to admit I am wrong, to grow up, to have children of my own. I forgave my parents for being what they were, because had they not been them, I would not have been me.

I do envy people who have everything sometimes, but the truth is I think they have less lessons learned because they have made not so many mistakes. When I write, I think of all the people who can read my story, and they will say “Well, that girl inspired me to be better even if my parents had broken up” or “She showed me that problems can be overcome once we believe in ourselves”.

I still cry sometimes thinking that life is not fair. I dream of growing up with a sane mother and a responsible father – but I did not, and I am still standing strong, did not take drugs, did not stop school, did not burn buildings, do not drink, do not smoke and do not practice hatred. I am who I choose to be and not because my parents are not okay, and not because they were not in my life.

People make reasons for their actions blaming their parents, their neighbors, their teachers – when they should be blaming no one but themselves. If we can make things work for the better, we have to. We shouldn't let the problem drown us; it should help us know how to swim.

I fought back when the pain was too strong by writing it and sharing it with my friends. It was the best feeling. I fought back when my mother shows me her bald head and when she talks to the air, I wrote it too. I do not do it for pity. I do it because someone, out there pretends they are okay when they are not. It doesn't help to live in a shell all your life.

 Be strong, but do not forget to always be you. Write your dreams, and make them come true – each and every one of them.


Author : Maria Jevska Nicolau is a 23-year old trainer on sales excellence who has a long love history with writing and won many journalism awards at college and region. She has a one year old daughter and a baby boy on the way. She likes Harry Potter and it is her ambition to write a book.


For more from author When young women become young mom and more here.

We can admit the fact that we as human beings are trapped in the never ending rat race with the jobs that we apply for.

Society is engineering us to accept the fact that we must work for someone and accept every idiotic rule and whim that goes through his or her head in order to put food on the table, as well as put up with all the unfairness and with the grossly undervalued paychecks in regards to our abilities.

And as the day comes to an end, we find ourselves sitting on the cheap couch in our half decorated living rooms, thinking about how hard we have worked today to make someone just a little bit richer and happier as he throws us half a bone every now and then.

There are people that are contempt with that lifestyle, but there are others that know there is more to life than rotting away in a cubicle while every single boss in the company rides your back worse than a mule.  

We, the few brave that managed to see past this social engineering, with a lot of work and sacrifice, have managed to break free of the shackles that come with the rat race, and managed to take life into their own hands.

What does that even mean?

There are always alternatives to anything, even jobs. You can start your own small business, and with the right amount of time, effort and dedication, you could turn it into something prosperous and profitable. The downside of this is that the bigger it gets, the more it becomes a rat race for a lot of other people, and you might wind up sucked into the middle of it as well, so proceed with caution if you are going down this path.

Another way of going about smashing the rat race is by becoming a freelancer. This is not the same thing as having a job, because you are not working for someone, you are working with them. You can have as many clients as you want, you can propose your own terms with a lot of confidence, you don’t have to bow your head and accept any form of humiliation, and you have as much power over the project as the person who requested it in the first place.

Needless to say, breaking the rat race implies working from the comfort of your own home, and no matter what path you chose, you will have to watch out, because there are good things about it, and then there are bad ones.

Let’s look at the good ones first.

• You can set your own business hours, and decide how often and how long your breaks are.
  
• You have no boss.
  
• You don’t have to face the weather every day because you work 1 room away from your bed.
• You can make a lot of friends, in a lot of places, fast.
• You don’t have to worry about losing your job.
• You are paid as much as you work, which is at the very least fair.
• You can take care of a lot of things that you could not take care of while having a job.
• You can still have your retirement fund, nest egg, college funds, etc., you’ll just have to work a bit more.
  
• You don’t really need to retire.
  
• You can work from wherever you want (assuming you work through the internet)
  
• Your national currency might be less valuable that the currency you are paid in.
  
• Some countries don’t recognize freelancing as being an actual profession; therefore the freelancers that operate within their territories don’t have to pay income taxes.
  
• You can make better financial calculations based on the money that you earn on an hourly basis as well as per project.
  

Yeah, I agree with you, these are some really great things, but there are some really big downsides to this as well.

They range from things that require self-discipline to things that are designed by the social systems to work against the ones that break the rat race.

Here are the downsides to working from home.

• You do not have a fixed income.
  
• No bank will ever grant you a loan, because banks don’t lend money to people without fixed income.
  
• You can easily overwork and burn yourself out.
  
• You can easily get distracted and go through the day without doing a bit of work.
  
• In some countries, freelancing is illegal.
  
• You don’t have any kind of health, dental or legal benefits.
  
• Banks will not give you credit cards.
  
• Banks will not let you mortgage your house.
  
• You have to learn a lot of things regarding financial transactions and pay a lot of fees associated with that. (To be fair, the damage done by the fees is minute compared to the money you were not being paid at your job, and it takes you about 1 day to learn all about financial transactions.)
  
• People will tend not to take you serious when you tell them that you are a freelancer.
  
• You will not have that office collective, and you might miss the office interactions, the office pranks and flirting with the secretary.
  
• You might be compelled to listen to domestic distractions, like your neighbors fighting.
  
• Once you get used to it, you might not want to get a job again.
  

The number of people working from home has risen in the last few years, and a lot of them have reported being more satisfied than working a normal job.

A man I know got frustrated over the fact that he was not promoted although he was working for that company for the last 6 years, so he decided to quit. The problem was that he was unable to get a job because of the recession, so he made the bold move of going freelance.

He now lives a better, more relaxed and carefree life, enjoying every moment of his new found freedom, and sharing it with his wife and kids.

Working from home definitely has its advantages and its drawbacks; however you are the only one to decide if you are willing and able to work from home, and if it is a blessing or a curse for you.