I'm a writer who stacks cat food for a living. It's true: I have

In the words of Ali Liebegott: “I'm a writer who stacks cat food for a living. It's true: I have a master's degree in creative writing, I've published two critically successful books, and I get paid to replenish the shelves of my local food co-op with pet food, sponges and toilet paper. Nine days out of 10, I do it quite happily.” At first glance, this confession seems humble, even humorous. Yet beneath its simplicity lies a truth that has echoed across the ages: that dignity is not found in titles, nor in wealth, but in labor, creation, and the acceptance of life’s paradoxes.

The origin of this thought comes from the tension every artist faces: the gulf between recognition of the spirit and sustenance of the body. Liebegott reveals the contradiction plainly—a writer with success in letters, yet one who stacks shelves in a store. This is not failure, but reality. For history has shown us countless poets, painters, and thinkers who toiled in ordinary trades while carrying in their hearts the fire of genius. The poet is not diminished by their labor; indeed, the labor often strengthens their art.

The ancients knew this well. Consider Sophocles, who even while writing his great tragedies served as a general and treasurer for Athens. Or Virgil, who wrote of shepherds and farmers because he himself knew the struggles of rural life. In every age, the greatest works of art have sprung not from towers of ivory, but from men and women who lived among the people, who bore the weight of common labor even as they carved eternal words. Liebegott joins this tradition: a creator who stacks cat food and toilet paper, yet whose spirit remains free to weave stories that endure.

There is a kind of heroism in this acceptance. Nine days out of ten, I do it quite happily, she says. Happiness, then, is not bound to the grandeur of occupation, but to the reconciliation of purpose. The writer who replenishes shelves still replenishes the soul through writing. The one who stocks food for animals also feeds the human spirit with stories. This duality is not a burden but a truth: life rarely grants us a single crown, but it always grants us the chance to find meaning in what we do, whether humble or exalted.

History gives us many such stories. Franz Kafka, who worked in an insurance office, wrote works that would later define the alienation of modern life. Wallace Stevens, one of the greatest American poets, spent his life employed by an insurance company. Their daily labors did not rob them of art; rather, their art was sharpened by the rhythms and humilities of work. Liebegott stands in this lineage, showing us that true artistry is not bound by profession, but by perseverance.

The deeper meaning of the quote is this: identity is not singular. One can be both worker and dreamer, laborer and artist, provider and visionary. The world may tell us that to stock shelves is lowly, and to publish books is lofty, but in truth, both belong to the same river of existence. The humility of labor teaches patience, while the fire of art teaches transcendence. Together, they make a whole life, rich in both grounding and aspiration.

The lesson for us is profound: honor all parts of your life. Do not despise the humble work that sustains you, nor believe it diminishes your higher calling. Instead, embrace it as part of the same journey, a grounding that keeps your soul tethered while your spirit soars. If you find happiness nine days out of ten, you have already found a treasure greater than wealth or fame.

Thus, Ali Liebegott’s words are not merely about stacking cat food—they are a testament to the human condition. To labor is to live, and to create is to endure. If you do both with joy, then you embody the wisdom of the ancients: that greatness is not found in separating the ordinary from the extraordinary, but in uniting them, and living each day as fully as it is given.