Editor’s note: A version of this essay was published by the author on her Substack, “Midwest Mexican.” We have republished it here, with permission.

Not very long ago, I was rubbing elbows with some of the most critically lauded chefs in the country at the James Beard Awards in Chicago, sipping cocktails and nibbling on hors d’oeuvres beneath the dreamy lights of Union Station. In my line of work as a food journalist, these kinds of scenes aren’t unusual. I’m often among the first to try the menu at a new restaurant. My calendar fills easily with pop-ups and tasting menus, dinners where each dish feels like a tiny performance.

And yet, this fall, I found myself checking the balance on my Bridge Card (Michigan’s version of SNAP, formerly known as food stamps) as the federal government shut down and the USDA warned that benefits for November would not be going out, affecting 1.4 million Michiganders, or about 42 million people nationwide. (That amounts to roughly 1 in 8 people.)

My last deposit came on October 17, and I won’t be waiting to see whether I’ll eat next month. I’m lucky, as a natural-born citizen whose first language is English, with a college degree and no dependents. I work in an intellectually challenging, highly competitive industry. When I was let go by one of the largest food publications in the country earlier this year, I received a healthy severance package that postponed my need for assistance. More recently, my freelance roster has begun to fill out again, so this temporary assistance is set to expire anyway. My only significant expenses now are the credit card bills I racked up from all those fine dining experiences I once called “research.”

Still, these past couple of months I’ve been on SNAP, and that reality feels increasingly common among people like me. What used to be a temporary safety net for the working poor has felt like a life raft for a growing class of professionals caught between the illusion of success and the instability of modern work.

This isn’t my first time depending on food assistance. As a kid, some of my earliest memories are of my family relying on food stamps or the charity of a local food pantry. Those moments left a quiet, but powerful imprint—the awkward mix of gratitude and annoyance that came with bringing home nondescript cans of pork product or peanut butter. Or the red-hot mark of embarrassment on my face from being sent to the corner store with a book of food stamps, not really sure of its value, to hand to the judgmental man behind the counter so I could purchase a carton of milk.