Category: Global Work & Culture

  • Renting My Own Life

    Renting My Own Life

    I Didn’t Sign Up to Financialize My Life

    I used to buy music. LPs, CDs, and the occasional downloaded file. Once I paid, it was mine. I could listen whenever I wanted. Then it shifted to streaming. Spotify and Apple Music made it effortless. Millions of songs are available instantly. No shelves. No collection to browse. Buying music had been a ritual. Discovering something. Bring it home. Playing it for people I cared about. That ritual is gone. I still have music, but it lives on devices and behind passwords now. It is harder to share and easier to lose.

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    This was sold as progress, but it does not feel like it. I miss record stores and buying something to keep. I resent having to pay continuously for access to things that used to belong to me. That was my first experience of the shift from ownership to permission. It did not stop with music. Movies moved to streaming, and software followed. Companies stopped selling tools and started leasing them. Miss a payment, and the tools stop working.

    Convenience became conditional.

    Ownership faded before I fully noticed. I stopped buying things and started managing subscriptions instead. One by one, small monthly charges became permanent financial background noise.

    Somewhere along the way, this strategy was renamed the sharing economy. A name that still bothers me. Sharing used to mean lending something to someone I knew. It was personal and informal. It was built on trust. Now sharing means platforms, unreadable contracts, and ratings that determine whether I am allowed to participate.

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    Companies like Uber and Airbnb were sold as revolutionary. The promise was freedom and opportunity. Earn extra income. Be your own boss. Cars became businesses. Homes became income streams. Spare time became labor. The promise of freedom and the reality of obligation are not unique to these platforms. It shows up wherever systems are designed to serve capital first and people second.

    Risk moved downward from companies to individuals, wrapped in friendly language. Subscriptions were never really about access. They were about predictability for the provider. Stable revenue. Reduced risk. Long-term control.

    I accepted it for convenience. The cost was a recurring obligation. Freedom slowly began to feel like dependence. This is the sharing economy. Less about sharing and more about renting personal belongings to strangers through apps that take a cut.

    When the commodity is you

    The sharing economy did not stop at things. It moved on to people. Uber described itself as a platform connecting drivers and riders. In practice, it turned personal vehicles into commercial assets while shifting insurance, maintenance, and depreciation to individuals. The car was repurposed, not really shared.

    Airbnb followed the same pattern. The spare room became managed inventory. Hosts coordinated cleaners, monitored reviews, and adjusted pricing to algorithms. The home, the one place a person is supposed to control, became a small business.

    Then the same logic moved further. Surrogacy agencies and egg donation brokers adopted similar structures. The language softened the transaction: compensation instead of payment, journey instead of contract. A body became a service. Biology entered the marketplace.

    Content creation followed, dressed up as self-expression. Platforms promised that anyone could build an audience and make a living. Some people do. But the demands are relentless. Post constantly. Track engagement. Adjust to algorithm changes.

    Personality becomes product. Attention becomes inventory. Platforms take a cut and control the relationship with the audience. Change the algorithm, and years of effort can collapse overnight. This pressure to perform for an algorithm is not unique to creators. It shows up wherever platforms interact with people, including the professional networks we use to manage our careers. The creator carries the risk while the platform keeps the margin.

    I am not arguing that everyone participating in these systems is exploited. People make choices, and sometimes the income matters. What concerns me is the structure. It makes these arrangements feel natural while quietly moving risk downward and profit upward.

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    The word I keep hearing is flexibility. Flexible income. Flexible hours. Flexible commitments. In practice, flexibility belongs to the platform. They summon labor when needed and discard it when not. For the worker, flexibility tends to mean instability. The logic has no clear stopping point. Each new platform finds another part of life to turn into a transaction.

    This is not a sharing economy. Sharing implies reciprocity and trust. What I see instead is a rental economy with warmer language. Platforms control the relationship. They capture the margin. Individuals carry the risk. It is not empowerment. It is not freedom.

    I am a platform’s revenue source.

    AI Transparency Statement for “Renting My Own Life”: The author defined all core concepts, direction, and parameters for this work. In the writing of this article, “Renting My Own Life,” AI assisted in drafting some text, conducting research, and creating visualizations elements. The AI tools used include ChatGPT, Claude, and Gemini. All AI-generated content was thoroughly reviewed and verified for accuracy and appropriateness. The final work reflects human judgment, expertise and experience.

    Author

    Gaute Gulliksen

  • The LinkedIn Nudge

    The LinkedIn Nudge

    LinkedIn nudged me today. “Connect with an Executive Director.” It arrived the way these things often do, a small suggestion wrapped in polite certainty, as if it knew something true about my life that I had somehow forgotten.

    What struck me was not the recommendation itself, but the confidence behind it. The platform assumed this is the direction I should be moving in. This is the kind of person who should matter to me. My career path is incomplete without one more important title orbiting my profile.

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    It felt familiar. I have heard this quiet push in classrooms, offices, airport lounges, and hotel corridors. The soft encouragement to climb rather than root. To collect impressive contacts rather than meaningful relationships. To treat ambition as only the need to dominate.

    I could almost hear the old script humming underneath. Success is vertical. Competence equals prestige. Leadership sits on the highest floors. It is a worldview that never took root in me. What stayed was the habit of pushing back, the slow practice of choosing another direction every time it appeared.

    Still, the nudge unsettled me. Not because I believed it, but because part of me paused. A small reflex trained to see value in proximity to power. As if being connected to high-profile executives somehow enriches my life, as if their prominence spills competence into my days through a digital connection.

    The algorithm may not feel malice, but it follows a logic that treats my attention as something to be extracted. It reflects a worldview that has been normalized for so long that I occasionally get caught up in it. Like it is a commonsense approach. Upward is better. Bigger is wiser. Titles are proof.

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    My life has taught me something else. The people who shaped me rarely had impressive job titles. The moments that changed my thinking never came from prestige. The growth I value has less to do with climbing and everything to do with curiosity and caring.

    So I ignored the suggestion. Not out of rebellion. Well, maybe a bit, but my ambitions cannot belong to platforms or hierarchies. They come from the places I have lived, the choices I have made, and the people who keep me grounded. None of that looks like a LinkedIn profile.

    Maybe that is the real story behind my reaction to the nudge. Not the algorithm’s intention, but the reminder it accidentally gives. The recognition that what constitutes success for the algorithm does not fit my understanding of what success should be.

    AI Transparency Statement for “The LinkedIn Nudge — Choosing Roots Over the Climb”: The author defined all core concepts, direction, and parameters for this work. In the writing of this article “The LinkedIn Nudge — Choosing Roots Over the Climb,” AI assisted in drafting text, and editing and refinement. The AI tools used include ChatGPT and Claude. All AI-generated content was thoroughly reviewed and verified for accuracy and appropriateness. The final work reflects primarily human judgment and expertise.

    Author

    Gaute Gulliksen

  • Shutdown and Sombreros

    Shutdown and Sombreros

    I’ve lived in Mexico for some years now. In that time, I’ve seen maybe three sombreros worn by actual people: on a couple of mariachi musicians, possibly one on a tourist at Cancun airport (though I can’t be certain), and that’s it. Three sombreros. Total. I probably should get out more.

    Meanwhile, despite my best efforts to confuse whatever algorithm that is feeding me, I’ve watched 20+ American politicians get digitally crowned with sombreros this past week alone. The U.S. government has shut down again, and apparently, the height of political commentary is slapping a sombrero sticker on a politician’s head and calling it done.

    I see more sombrero content from the US than I’ve seen actual sombreros here in Mexico.

    This idea led me to verify my suspicion with an AI. After some back and forth, the AI estimated that roughly 0.08% of Mexico’s population wears sombreros with any regularity (obviously, I have not found any real statistics on this). That’s mariachi musicians, charros, folklórico dancers, and a handful of tourism workers. Meanwhile, American tourists arrive in hordes (an “invasion” of over 20 million in 2023), many purchasing sombreros twice the size of their torsos, declaring themselves honorary locals after two margaritas and a mariachi selfie.

    But back to the political commentary, which apparently has reached the sticker stage. Watching these modified clips made my thoughts drift to the Mexico I know. Not out of nostalgia, but because of the absurd symmetry. While the United States is stickering its democracy, Mexico exists as a cartoon in foreign imagination. And the Mexican government isn’t exactly rushing to correct this. Stereotypes sell vacation packages.

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    Apart from the current misleading narrative about my home being a warzone, I believe the average American tourist views Mexico as a postcard from the 1950s: cacti, tequila, a burro resting between errands, and a man in a sombrero taking a siesta. The siesta was practical, the sombrero provided shade, and the burro was useful before pickup trucks. Practical tools became symbols of laziness. I’ve seen the same narrative in Europe about Italians and Greeks, but without the burro.

    These tourists arrive with that postcard in mind. They buy oversized sombreros, snap mariachi selfies, and go home convinced they’ve experienced “authentic Mexico.” Washington produces fake sombrero images of politicians. Cancun produces fake authentic culture for tourists. In both cases, what’s real gets edited out.

    Stereotypes are efficient “tools”. Why understand Mexico as a complex, modern country (the IMF’s 12th largest economy in the world, with tech start-ups, art collectives, environmental movements, and a dynamic cultural landscape) when a sombrero suffices? It’s the same logic behind U.S. politics: why grapple with complex policy when a ten-second clip of embarrassment will do?

    Here’s where it stops being “funny”.

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    When a stereotype becomes the dominant lens, it does real damage. The “lazy Mexican,” the “romantic peasant,” the “dangerous migrant.” These aren’t just wildly inaccurate and old descriptions. They shape policies and justify border walls, trade barriers, discrimination, and countless acts of condescension disguised as help.

    It is a repetitive and familiar stereotype, a fiction that becomes the accepted reality. Most Americans buying those oversized hats don’t see the harm, nor do the local traders. It’s an inherited script of a cultural default that confuses recognition with caricature. Meanwhile, the same country that turns Mexico into a costume turns its own democracy into a costume drama.

    A future historian piecing this together (the shutdowns, the edited videos, the deliberate cultural misunderstandings) might conclude that early 21st-century America was one big theme park. Every attraction is designed for maximum engagement, with minimal space for reflection.

    Most Americans are only looking for a better life, dignified and meaningful. They’re not getting it from established structures. Politics, media, corporations, and even community life have been reduced to entertainment, with real-world consequences that are anything but amusing. The spectacle continues, but the people living it must feel the fatigue.

    From here in Mexico, it’s both fascinating and absurd to observe. At least in Mexico, the sombrero still blocks the sun. In Washington, the only thing getting shaded is the truth.

    AI Transparency Statement
    AI tools (Claude/Anthropic, ChatGPT/OpenAI) assisted with drafting and editing this piece. All content has been thoroughly reviewed, edited, and verified by the author.

    Author

    Gaute Gulliksen

  • The Real Difference Between Expats and Immigrants (And Why It Matters)

    The Real Difference Between Expats and Immigrants (And Why It Matters)

    Picture this: Two people move to Germany for work. One is a British software engineer on a two-year contract. The other is a Syrian teacher planning to build a new life there permanently. Yet somehow, only one gets called an “expat” while the other is labeled an “immigrant.” What’s going on here?

    It Should Be Simple: Intent Makes the Difference

    The distinction between expatriate and immigrant should be straightforward: intent. Are you planning to return home eventually? You’re an expat. Are you putting down permanent roots? You’re an immigrant.

    With 304 million people now living outside their birth countries, nearly 4% of the world’s population, getting these terms right actually matters (United Nations, 2024).

    The Reality Check: It’s Not About Job Titles

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    If we applied the intent-based definition consistently, a construction worker from Guatemala on a seasonal contract would be an expat, just like the Canadian marketing manager on assignment in Tokyo. Both plan to return home; both are temporarily abroad.

    Yet in common usage, the term “expat” has become an exclusive label for certain demographics. Research shows that Western professionals are far more likely to be described as expats, while people from the Global South are categorized as immigrants or migrants, regardless of their plans (Fechter & Walsh, 2010). These word choices are not neutral—they reflect deeper social hierarchies about who is seen as mobile talent and who is seen as a burden.

    The Plot Twist: Status Can Change, But Privilege Doesn’t

    Life rarely fits neat categories. My own journey illustrates the blur: after a decade as a permanent resident in Mexico—making me, by definition, an immigrant—I still take short-term humanitarian assignments abroad. That makes me both an immigrant in my home base and an expat in my work destinations.

    But here’s the key: my European passport smooths my path in ways others don’t experience. Whether I’m labeled an immigrant or an expat, my documents open doors, my professional networks remain intact, and I navigate bureaucracy with confidence born from privilege. The terminology may shift; the structural advantages don’t.

    Beyond Choice: When “Voluntary” Gets Complicated

    The expat-versus-immigrant distinction also assumes freedom of choice, but the reality is more complex. Some people move abroad for adventure or career growth, while others leave because staying isn’t viable—due to war, economic necessity, or family obligations.

    And language shapes how we perceive these journeys. For instance, the term “illegal immigrant” has no basis in international law, yet its use erases the human story behind movement and stigmatizes people whose situations are often anything but voluntary (De Genova, 2002).

    The Bigger Picture

    Words carry weight. When “expat” is reserved for white-collar professionals from wealthy countries and “immigrant” for everyone else, we reinforce a hierarchy that values some border-crossers over others.

    The good news? We can do better. If we use these terms based on intent instead of prejudice, we create room for more honest conversations about the diversity of global mobility. Getting the words right isn’t just semantics. It is about dismantling the invisible hierarchies that shape how we see people on the move.

    References

    Author

    Gaute Gulliksen

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