A man pointed at my grease-streaked hands in a grocery store and told his son that’s what failure looks like. I kept quiet. But minutes later, his phone rang—and before the night ended, he was standing in front of me, apologizing.I started welding the week after I graduated high school.

Fifteen years later, I was still at it. I liked the work because it made sense. Metal either held or it didn’t.You either knew what you were doing, or you left a mess for someone else to clean up. There was honesty in that—something worth being proud of, too. But not everyone saw it that way.

One evening, I was standing in the hot food section at the grocery store when I overheard something that reminded me how little some people value honest work. I was staring at the trays under the heat lamps, trying to decide what to grab for dinner. I was exhausted from a long shift and struggling to keep my eyes open.