“I have multiple side-hustles … It’s exhausting”

Valletta – It’s 05:45 on a humid August morning and 27-year-old Mandy* is already cycling from her shared flat in Gżira to the ferry terminal, laptop in backpack, gig-economy insulated bag strapped to the handlebars. By 06:30 she is steaming lattes for early commuters at a café kiosk in Valletta. At 10:00 she switches aprons and races to her full-time marketing job in St Julian’s. At 18:30 she logs into a third screen—this time in her bedroom—to run a remote customer-support shift for a German fintech until 01:00. Weekends? Those belong to a fourth hustle: styling hair for weddings in Rabat.
“I have multiple side-hustles,” she says, wiping steam off her glasses between sips of Kinnie. “It’s exhausting, but the Maltese economy doesn’t leave you much choice.”

Mandy is not an outlier. A 2023 JobsPlus survey shows that 42 % of Maltese workers aged 18-35 report at least one secondary income stream—highest in the EU. The reasons are a cocktail of soaring property prices, stagnant entry-level salaries, and a cultural expectation that family milestones (first communion parties, summer festa trips to Gozo, a €30,000 wedding at Villa Bologna) must still be financed. “We inherited our parents’ social calendar but not their COLA-era purchasing power,” Mandy shrugs.

The Maltese term for this hustle culture—“xogħol żejjed”—used to carry a stigma of shame: a sign you couldn’t land a proper government post. Today it is flaunted on TikTok like a badge. Influencers film themselves editing Shopify stores at 2 a.m. to the soundtrack of Ġorġ tal-Ħniena remixes. Hashtags like #MaltaSideHustle or #FestaFunds rack up millions of views. The shift is generational, explains Dr Maria Pace, sociologist at the University of Malta. “Our parents worked one job for 40 years and retired on two-thirds pension. The 2008 crash and the 2020 pandemic taught younger Maltese that security is an illusion. Multiple income streams feel safer than one employer.”

Yet the psychological toll is visible. NGOs such as Richmond Foundation report a 30 % spike in burnout-related calls since 2022. “Clients describe a constant ‘on’ switch,” says psychologist Luke Briffa. “They feel guilty relaxing at a beach in Mellieħa because that hour could be spent dropshipping phone cases.” The traditional Sunday family lunch—once sacrosanct—is now often punctuated by courier pick-ups and Zoom pings.

The community fabric is fraying in subtler ways. Parish youth groups struggle to find volunteers; festa committees can’t drum up enough people to carry the statue because everyone is driving Bolt at surge rates. “Last year we had to pay teenagers €50 each to help decorate the street arches,” sighs Carmen, president of the Qormi St George band club. “Their parents insist they need the cash for driving lessons.”

Ironically, the tourism industry—Malta’s economic lifeline—both feeds and bleeds from the side-hustle wave. Airbnb hosts who once rented spare rooms now juggle cleaning schedules between three properties and a nine-to-five. The result: delayed check-ins, overworked cleaners, negative reviews, and a reputation dip that the Malta Tourism Authority is scrambling to address with new licensing rules.

Policy response has been piecemeal. In May, the Ministry for Social Policy floated a “side-hustle amnesty” allowing undeclared gig income up to €10,000 per year to be regularised at a flat 10 % tax. Critics argue the threshold is too low and the stigma too high. “Declaring your pastizzi-delivery cash might trigger a VAT audit on your Etsy shop,” warns lawyer Ramona Attard. Meanwhile, coworking spaces like the new “Zejjed Hub” in Sliema sell day-passes with nap pods and on-site notaries—capitalism monetising the cure to the disease it created.

Still, solidarity bubbles up. Facebook groups such as “Malta Side-Hustle Support” share mental-health resources, templates for invoicing, and warnings about scam clients. Pop-up markets in Birgu now dedicate stalls to overworked crafters who trade handmade lace for therapy vouchers. “We’re trying to rewrite the script,” says Mandy, scrolling through WhatsApp offers for yet another hair-styling gig. “But sometimes I wonder if the script is writing us.”

As the ferry horn echoes across Grand Harbour, she pockets her tips and queues for the next ride. The sun is rising over the three cities, golden light glinting off cranes building luxury flats priced well beyond her reach. Somewhere, church bells ring for morning mass—a reminder of an older Malta that valued rest. For now, that Malta feels like a side-hustle she can’t afford.

*Name changed to protect privacy.