Sure, the printer’s jammed with Legos, but I’d take that over a soul-crushing commute any day. A salty love letter to the home grind.

I’ve been working from home since 1996—back when “online” meant AOL chatrooms and a modem that sounded like a dying fax machine. For 29 years, I’ve dodged cubicles, fluorescent lighting, and stale breakroom coffee while raising six kids in the wilds of West Virginia with my childhood sweetheart, now my beautiful wife. I’ve built a career out of web design, graphics, writing, copywriting, branding, image consulting, and every marketing hustle under the sun— all from a desk that’s seen more Hot Wheels crashes than corporate memos. Working from home isn’t all sunshine and pajama parties; some days it’s a circus fire with no extinguisher in sight. But even when it sucks, it’s still a thousand times better than the 9-to-5 grind. Here’s why.

The Commute? Kiss It Goodbye

Let’s start with the obvious: no commute. Back in the ‘90s, I watched friends haul themselves into Charleston, bleary-eyed and cursing traffic, while I rolled out of bed and into my “office” (a.k.a. the kitchen table until kid #3 turned it into a finger-paint canvas). Today, my commute is 12 steps from the coffee pot to my chair. Sure, I’ve had to fish Legos out of the printer and once spent an hour untangling a cat from my Ethernet cable, but I’d take that over bumper-to-bumper hell any day. Time’s the real currency, and WFH hands it back to you in spades.

The Dress Code: Freedom in Fleece

If I never see another tie, it’ll be too soon. I’ve logged decades in sweatpants and hoodies, and I’m still cashing checks. The cubicle life demands you iron shirts and shine shoes like you’re auditioning for a 1950s sitcom. At home? My clients don’t care if I’m in yesterday’s T-shirt, as long as the landing page converts or the logo pops. Once, I pitched a five-figure branding gig with a collared shirt over a pair of boxers adorned with cartoon tacos. They signed the contract. Try pulling that off in a boardroom.

The Chaos: At Least It’s Mine

Don’t get me wrong—WFH has its own brand of madness. With six kids, I’ve muted Zoom calls to break up fights over the last Pop-Tart, negotiated peace treaties during deadlines, and once found my tax receipts shredded into confetti by a toddler with a vendetta. But here’s the kicker: it’s my chaos. In a cubicle, you’re at the mercy of Linda from HR’s microwave fish, the guy who coughs like he’s auditioning for a TB ward, and the boss who thinks “urgent” means “interrupt your lunch.” At home, I control the mess—or at least I can lock the door and let my wife handle the meltdown du jour.

The Hustle: No Ceiling, No BS

Cubicle life caps you—there’s a ladder, sure, but it’s greased with politics and topped with a fluorescent-lit dead end. WFH? The sky’s the limit, and the only ass you kiss is your own reflection’s. Since ‘96, I’ve stacked skills like a Jenga tower: web design when tables were cutting-edge, copywriting that sold everything from widgets to weight loss, branding for startups that didn’t know their ass from their elbow. No middle manager’s approval required—just results. Some months I’m flush; others, I’m scraping by. But I’d rather bet on myself than some suit who can’t spell “SEO.”

The Tech: Glitches Beat Gridlock

Yeah, the Wi-Fi drops sometimes—usually mid-pitch, because the universe has a sick sense of humor. Last week, kid #5 jammed a PB&J into my keyboard, and I’ve rebooted my router more times than I’ve showered this month. But I’ll take a tech tantrum over a cubicle’s ancient Dell and a shared printer that’s perpetually “offline.” At home, I’ve got my setup: dual monitors, a chair that doesn’t creak like a haunted house, and a backup drive for when the cloud inevitably betrays me. It’s not perfect, but it’s mine—and it beats begging IT for a mouse that works.

The Soul: It’s Still Intact

Here’s the real deal: cubicles suck the life out of you. The commute, the buzzwords, the mandatory “team-building” where you fake-smile through trust falls—it’s a slow bleed. WFH has its own grind, no question. I’m tired—29 years of juggling deadlines and diaper changes will do that. But I’ve got my wife’s dry wit over bourbon, kids who still hug me (sometimes), and a guitar to strum when the stress piles up. I’m not a shell staring at a time clock, waiting for 5 p.m. I’m a salty, sweatpants-clad warrior who’s still in the game.

The Verdict: WFH Wins, Warts and All

So yeah, the printer’s jammed with Legos again, and I’m pretty sure the dog just ate my invoice notes. But I’m not trading this for a cubicle’s beige prison. WFH lets me live—really live—while keeping the bills paid and the kids fed. It’s messy, it’s loud, it’s a daily test of patience, but it’s freedom. And after nearly three decades, I’ll take that over a tie and a traffic jam every damn time.