The Doe’s Latest Stories

I feel the little white pill settle into my stomach, praying that it works. When I go back to bed, I think up a plan in case the pill fails and I become pregnant. A few weeks later, tears of joy fall down my face when my period comes. I don’t tell anyone what happened. This memory has haunted me for years, feeling both guilty and relieved, marveling at the choices my mother could have had and what she might think. Would she be disappointed in me? Would she even care? Would she be jealous that I could run to CVS, buy a $50 pill and a Coke and call it a day?For decades, women in Romania were terrorized by the government. Stripped of their rights, women’s bodies were used as incubators to increase the population and build a robust military and workforce. The monstrosity of Romania's past discretions is distinctly poignant as we watch American women hold on to their reproductive rights by a thread. As an American woman, I may face the same fate as my biological mother in Bucharest—the same fate that led me here. In reading this, you are engaging with the consequence of Romania’s abortion and contraception ban. I was a Romanian orphan.

The end of Roe v. Wade could flood the foster system and force unbearable weight on the children within it.

I Am a Direct Result of the Romanian Abortion Ban

If you look roughly 60 years into Romania’s past, you’ll come across Decree 770. In the 1960s, Communist leader Nicolae Ceauşescu restricted abortions and contraception to boost birth rates and create a larger Romanian population. In addition, divorce was made nearly impossible and legal separation was only allowed under exceptional circumstances. These constraints, of course, came to the detriment of women—and their children.The termination of women’s rights led to a severe overpopulation in Romanian orphanages, making the conditions sickly and dangerous. Children were sometimes left to die due to a lack of proper care. Those who did survive often suffered from physical and mental illnesses. For many Romanian parents, sending a child to an orphanage was meant to be a temporary placement until the family could afford to come back for them—most of these children were never meant to be orphans. Being in that orphanage meant my mother might have planned to return for me one day.In the ’90s, after Decree 770 had been lifted, 20/20 released a special about the conditions of Romania’s orphanages—the horror behind the stone walls. Americans reacted with shock and grief, and thousands flocked there to adopt. Known as Romania’s “lost generation,” many orphaned children, me included, were released to new American parents and sent to assimilate to a disparate way of life.But this mass exodus caused issues for the Romanian embassy; simply put, too many Romanian citizens were leaving at once, causing stress to the record system and causing issues for adoptive parents who, like my own, were trying to return to the States. This forced the government to pause international adoptions.

We Need to Give More Attention to Foster Children in the U.S.

In the United States, the foster system is collapsing in on itself. In my state, Michigan, the local news plays what are essentially commercials of children advertising themselves and why they deserve to have a loving family. As we all know, though, the older a child gets, the harder it is to get out of the system. And within the system, abuse and neglect are rampant.As Americans battle over what constitutes “life” in the physical and spiritual sense, living and breathing children are at the mercy of incompetent institutions that provide nothing for their well-being beyond the bare-bones basics. In return for barely taking care of the children in the foster system, leaders expect praise and support. Meanwhile, it’s evident to anyone paying attention that the government has no plans to support these children in ways that matter.Lately, there has been a narrative that no one is entitled to have children and that adoption shouldn’t be used as family planning, which can be a tough pill to swallow, but it’s true. Adoption can be a traumatizing event—for the child, the biological parents and the adoptive parents. I can recall my parents’ stories about having guns to their heads at the embassy and not knowing if they would be able to leave the country.Adoption should not be viewed as the last resort for those who want to have children. It is not the fail-safe; it is not the worst-case scenario. Many international adoptees are forced to assimilate into the culture of their adopted families without ever having the chance to experience their own. Like Romania, U.S. domestic adoption has become a point of commerce rather than an opportunity to create a loving family. The end of Roe v. Wade could flood the foster system and force unbearable weight on the children within it.

I’m facing the same hell in my 20s that my biological mother lived in hers.

Romania Serves as an Example of What Can Happen if the U.S. Bans Abortions

The American government gave women the right to choose with Roe v. Wade. Still, there has always been a sense of contention surrounding this ruling, with so many believing that women should be carrying their pregnancies to term, no matter what. But we are now closer than ever to losing the right to abortions and birth control, with some states already living in that circle of hell.As the world crumbles, solutions and programs are required for stability. America is planting its feet firmly on the ground and threatening to take away our options. Being forced to carry a baby and giving birth to one can be equally as traumatic, especially when the standard for prenatal care can vary so greatly. Black women, for example, are 3.5 times more likely to die in childbirth than white women due to inequality in the delivery room. When there are no programs or standards in place for care before, during and after birth, peoples’ limits are stretched and infrastructure fails.With the cost of living steadily rising and another recession on the horizon, it’s no wonder the political right is panicking over a steadily declining birth rate. No one wants to have a child in a country where they are not supported, and it’s difficult to envision a future in America different from Romania’s past, just 30 years ago.Governments will seemingly do all that they can to strengthen the military and workforce, and our rights are currently in the way. At this point, I don’t know if staying in Romania would have been different than coming to the U.S. I’m facing the same hell in my 20s that my biological mother lived in hers.

Journalists are known for being thick-skinned, taking no nonsense and being fearless in the face of everything they report on—after all, it comes as part and parcel with the job description, so it must be true, right? But there are different types of journalists and writers within the realm of the media, and not all of us are completely fearless and as thick-skinned as one might initially imagine. So what happens when a journalist, thick-skinned or thin, is named, shamed and called out for simply doing their job? Staff writers who work at various international news outlets and publications know all too well what I and many others have been through and continue to go through. And as an entertainment reporter like myself, who reports on high-profile celebrities, there is a risk that you might write something that they don’t like.

I felt shaken to my core.

Getting Trolled Online Made Me Question My Career Choice

I wrote an article not too long ago about a well-known celebrity that later left me questioning my career and wondering if I was the ethical journalist I pride myself on being. The article was assigned to me and was based on some tweets that the celebrity had published on Twitter. Fair and balanced, I wrote the piece and ensured it adhered to everything it needed to. The piece then went through legal—a process where the article gets read by a solicitor, who will then recommend any changes to make, ensuring it’s legally sound and won’t get the publication into hot water. After about half an hour, my editor informed me all was OK, and the piece was published. Shortly after, I was hit with a barrage of hate messages telling me what a bad journalist I was. This was the first time anything like this had happened to me, and I felt shaken to my core. I then realized that the celebrity had named and shamed me online: This was when I knew that I wasn’t as thick-skinned as I had first thought I was. Tears trickled down my face, and an overwhelming feeling of sadness washed over me because I had been called out, hit with hate and left in the gutter for simply doing my job. Devastated that I might have done something wrong and feeling as though I should pack in the career I had worked for so long to forge out for myself, I couldn’t fathom how hopeless I felt from one single action. Luckily, my team backed me all the way, and after blocking the necessary accounts, everything blew over and all was OK in the end—but that didn’t and still doesn’t stop my nerves from creeping up on me whenever I have to write about that celebrity again.The thing is, it seems that celebrities don’t realize that we’re only doing our job and that behind the byline, we’re real people too. Recently, I've seen more and more colleagues of mine get “dragged” and trolled online by celebrities and their online fans because they didn’t like an article that was written about them. It seems that these people have completely forgotten that just like them, we have feelings too.

Staff writers and journalists have feelings and emotions too.

Journalists Are Just Doing Their Jobs

Recently, I saw that a journalist I know and work with was hit with blistering criticism after they wrote a piece about another high-profile celebrity and TV star. They were doing their job and simply writing something that they had been told to—their photo and name were plastered across the internet and a hate campaign was launched against them. Knowing exactly what they were going through, I could sympathize with the emotions they were feeling because I had been there. And I often see other journalists and writers I know being targeted with hate online by the celebrities they write about simply because of articles they have been asked to write. Being a journalist or staff writer at an online publication means you’re writing newsworthy pieces in order to attract traffic to the publication’s website and, more often than not, writing what you’re told. Staff writers also don’t necessarily pick their own headlines, either, which will no doubt surprise many. If the journalist knows the publication well, their headline might stay, but headlines can also get tweaked to improve clickability—meaning it might not be worded how writers had imagined, which sometimes happens. We are given a list of articles that need to be written, often based on other articles online, tweets, Instagram posts or magazine clips—and then we have to write them up, adhering to relevant media law and publishing guidelines, as well as the publication’s house style. There are some quite rigorous laws and guidelines to follow as a journalist, and not doing so can have big repercussions for yourself or the publication you write for. Obviously, everything is written because it’s in the public’s interest, and this is what keeps websites and newspapers ticking over. But most of everything staff journalists write is written because it will do well for the website, driving traffic and readers and, in turn, keeping them employed. Celebrities need to understand that if they’re putting themselves in the spotlight, releasing books, press releases, appearing on TV shows and using social media platforms to air their views, then they’re likely going to be written about because after all, that is the job of a journalist. Staff writers and journalists have feelings and emotions, too, and we don't always choose our own headlines or pick out the stories we want to write. I have become accustomed to trolling a little more now and think my skin has thickened over time, which doesn’t make me as mad as I had imagined it would. In fact, it’s probably improved the way I do my job and given me more of a voice to speak my mind—but that doesn’t mean it’s OK for people to troll us. We have a job to do and we do it—and dealing with trolls shouldn't be part of the job description.

“I post to Gone Wild, like, once a year when I need a confidence boost,” my friend said in a recent conversation. “What is that?” I asked. She explained that r/GoneWild is a subreddit where Redditors share naked photos of themselves for other users to upvote. With over 3 million members, the community is one of the most active on Reddit and one of the sexiest places on the internet. The page is also surprisingly supportive and kind. It's rare to see rude or negative comments posted underneath photos, and all body types are appreciated. I was intrigued by our conversation and decided to post to Gone Wild. I’ve always liked taking nude photos of myself and sending them to partners or random crushes. There is something nice about looking at my body in a photo and enjoying what I see. It reminds me that a sexual being lurks underneath the baggy sweatpants.

Posting a nude photo of yourself to a 3,000,000-plus member community is quite thrilling.

I Started Sexting a Stranger Who Commented on My Nudes

After creating a Reddit account where I could post NSFW content, I soon found myself alone in my room in front of a full-length IKEA mirror. It’s not easy to hold a phone while photographing your body from an attractive angle. I made sure my face, photos and other personal items that someone could use to identify me were not visible on the screen and started snapping away. Now there was just the question of what photo to post first. I chose a likable nude and hit “Create Post,” feeling a rush of adrenaline. Posting a nude photo of yourself to a 3,000,000-plus member community is quite thrilling. I did not know what to expect, but I was ready to be surprised. Almost immediately, my phone started buzzing with notifications from private messages, post comments and new followers. I had never felt more popular. Most of the messages were frightening dick pics or long-winded introductions from Star Wars fanatics. It was fun to read through all of them. One message stood out. It was from a user complimenting my tattoo. I replied. My inbox buzzed immediately with his response, and soon, we were in an electric conversation about tattoos and his ruined boxer briefs. Talking to my sexy new pen pal was fun and made me feel more wanted than I had in a long time. Soon, we were messaging every day and exchanging nudes. When his name appeared on my phone screen, I immediately felt turned on. It was like a Pavlovian response. One time, I was in the middle of cooking dinner with my roommates when my phone buzzed on the counter. I immediately became distracted and stopped listening to the discussion about growing herbs. “Basil, thyme, dill…what else?” one of the roommates asked. Instead of answering, I read the words “miss youuu” on the screen. “Miss you too,” I said out loud. “What?” my roommate replied. “Oh, sorry. I meant mint,” I said, confused. Then, I slipped out of the kitchen and up to my room, phone in hand. Between the sexting, we filled in small details about our lives. He was older and working from home in a nine-to-five job, feeling trapped during COVID. I was at a particularly chaotic time in my life. I had just finished university far away from home and was unsure where I wanted life to take me next. Perhaps my life sounded exciting and novel to him, while his stability and routine attracted me. While we lived on opposite sides of the world, we often imagined how it would be to meet in person. We talked about what snacks he would have waiting at home when I arrived and what bars I would take him to while playing tour guide in my city. After about a week of talking, he asked, “Would you ever show me you? Like, if I did too.” We had seen just about every part of each other's bodies except for the face. While in theory I know never to share my face with an internet stranger, I felt safe enough to send a photo of myself. His face was surprisingly attractive and confirmed hot people are hanging around Reddit. I saved it to my camera roll and looked at it an embarrassing amount.

Maybe you can only sext so much before the phrases start to feel stale and the ass pictures become repetitive.

I Didn’t Know the Person I Was Texting Was Married

Our intense messaging continued for about a month before he shared a surprising piece of information. After I sent a photo of myself one night, he replied, “There’s no way you could be single, right?”“Mm, it’s complicated,” I typed. I had been dating a good and kind person for several months. While I liked their company, I was in the process of getting to know them and figuring out what type of connection we had. We were in more of an exploring phase than a committed one. “Are you single?”“I knew it!” he wrote. “And same, it’s very complicated. You might hate me forever.” My heart immediately started pounding. I gripped my phone tightly, waiting for it to buzz with his next message. A minute later, I received a photo of his hand. On one of the fingers was a sleek black wedding ring. He explained that he had been together with his wife for a while, but the passion had faded. He described it as a dead bedroom situation. At first, I didn’t reply. There are certain things one knows to be wrong or right, and sexting with a married man is generally considered wrong. Was this something I wanted to be involved with, however indirectly? Eventually, I wrote him back “good night” and fell asleep. When he messaged me the next day, I replied. I liked talking to him too much to make the “right” decision. “I thought you hated me,” he wrote. “Would you be sad if I hated you?” “Absolutely.” He apologized for not giving me the whole story in the beginning and said he got caught up in the joy of feeling wanted again. A part of me did feel bad that he was sending sneaky messages while eating lunch with his wife. However, it didn’t stop me from continuing the internet affair. We chatted for about another month or so, but the messages lacked the same electricity. Gradually, our responses slowed, and the conversation died. I started to prioritize the life around me instead of our digital conversation. Perhaps reality replaced fantasy. Or maybe you can only sext so much before the phrases start to feel stale and the ass pictures become repetitive.

Our Brief Encounter Taught Me About What I Want Out of a Relationship

Looking back, what bothers me most about our interaction is that he said his situation (being married) was about the same as my situation (dating someone). I don’t think being married is the same as casually dating around. Marriage is a big commitment one should handle with honesty and care. I hope his partner would understand and be OK with him sexting strangers on Reddit as a way to fill his needs. In the end, this experience made me think about what I want (and don’t want) in my own romantic partnerships. If I choose to get married in the future, I would like to be comfortable communicating with my partner when I feel unsatisfied with our sex life. I hope we will be able to find solutions together, even if that means opening up the relationship at some point. In the meantime, I might post on Gone Wild again.

Thanks to the release of the Oscar-winning film Belfast, people have started to turn their attention to Northern Ireland and gained insight into the national trauma that was The Troubles. For two generations of my ancestry, The Troubles was a very real and personal trauma, and the scars of that conflict remain to this day.The film, which was awarded Best Original Screenplay at the Academy Awards in March, is an autobiographical look into filmmaker Kenneth Branagh’s working-class Belfast family life during the advent of The Troubles. It tells the story of the historical conflict through the eyes of a young boy, was described by Branagh as a search for “hope and joy in the face of violence and loss.” From the 1960s until the peace agreement in 1998, my parents and grandparents’ lives were shaped similarly by the political conflict, which pitted Catholics against Protestants and led to never-before-seen bloodshed in the region. In total, The Troubles resulted in around 3,500 deaths and some 50,000 injuries. While Catholic nationalists fought for an independent Ireland liberated from British rule, Protestant unionists defiantly sought to demonstrate their allegiance to the U.K.

A generation later, my parents lived under the same reign of terror.

As a Police Officer, My Grandfather Experienced Violence from the IRA

My grandfather served as a Royal Ulster Constabulary police officer over the course of The Troubles. It was arguably one of the most dangerous positions to be in during that time, as some 319 RUC officers were murdered and 9,000 injured by the Irish Republican Army (IRA). By 1983, Northern Ireland was the world’s most dangerous place to serve as a police officer, twice the rate of even the second-most dangerous country, El Salvador. All of which resulted in my grandfather witnessing his fellow colleagues getting gunned down by the enemy, and himself descending into depression and alcoholism as he contemplated his own mortality every single day.At the very start of his career in the late 1960s, my grandfather experienced such violence firsthand, as his police station was ambushed by the IRA one night while he served on duty. He was shot six times during the surprise raid, and barely escaped with his life. After being rushed to hospital, he met my grandmother who was working there as a nurse at the time. And the rest, as they say, is history.But in spite of all of that, on his 90th birthday, my grandfather sat in his armchair and reflected on his life. “I hold no hate in my heart for what they did to me in 1968,” he said. A generation later, my parents lived under the same reign of terror.The two religious groups were so divided that my then eight-year-old mother passed Friesian cows in a field one day and asked her mother whether they were Protestant or Catholic. They must have belonged to one of the two sides, she thought, because everyone else did. Such a naive perspective is something which Belfast achieves with both heart-breaking and eye-opening effect. In the film, nine-year-old protagonist Buddy has difficulty understanding the conflict, and relies on his parents to educate him about the turmoil going on around him. Such exchanges are endearing, but successfully illustrate the senselessness of the violence which has destroyed this young boy’s home.

My Parents Have Traumatic Memories of Street Bombs in Belfast

As my mother matured, so too did her understanding of the conflict and the atmosphere in which she lived. She recalls, at 17, sitting in her car in her driveway and praying that she would be spared as she turned on the ignition. It was an all-too-real fear that a bomb would have been planted under the car to kill her police-officer father. In her younger years, she had grown completely accustomed to walking past army trucks on her way to school and being searched before walking into Sunday school or the supermarket.On the other side of the city, my father also experienced the trauma of The Troubles. Very rarely would he speak about what he witnessed, but when he did, it was clear the memories of the conflict had stayed with him long after the conflict ended. While working in central Belfast, he witnessed a car explosion one Tuesday morning on his way to the office. An RUC officer and his girlfriend had been targeted, and my 28-year-old father saw the couple catapulted through the roof of their vehicle as the bomb detonated without warning. My father rushed over to assist the pair before emergency services tended to the scene. He only started to believe what had happened when he saw the incident being reported on the 10 p.m. news later that day. Only weeks later, my dad had also stopped a young family from walking down a city center street after spotting a suspicious-looking vehicle, which was parked in front of a government building. Moments later the car exploded, and thankfully no one was hurt, thanks to his instincts.

She recalls, at 17, sitting in her car in her driveway and praying that she would be spared as she turned on the ignition.

I’m Deeply Connected to Ireland and its History of Violence

For my parents and grandparents, this reign of terror was just a fact of life. But having grown up in suburban London some years after the peace agreement, I found it hard to imagine these were my ancestors’ experiences when I was told the stories of The Troubles.Now older and more understanding of the context, I am grateful for films like Belfast, which have presented similar stories to my parents’ and grandparents’, while conveying the importance of peace in Northern Ireland today. Having visited the region countless times over my life and knowing my family’s history, I feel deeply connected to the region and care deeply about its future.But over the past several years since the European Union Referendum, I believe William Faulkner’s infamous words, “The past is never dead. It’s not even past,” have never been truer for Northern Ireland. Just over two decades since the peace agreement, it’s no wonder that the trauma remains just below the surface, for my own family and the rest of the country.

Over my 12 years as an entertainment reporter, I’ve published thousands of stories, from news pieces to 10,000 word features. I’ve sat down with everyone from superfans to George Clooney and Julia Roberts, and I’ve written about so many movies and TV shows that I can’t even remember a third of them. I’ve also been called an idiot for thinking an OK movie was just OK, been tagged frequently on Twitter by people who just want to let me know my opinion is wrong and—almost a decade after I first published the piece—still hear from fans of a comedian who think I gave him an unfair shake during an interview. I’ve never been doxxed, but I’ve lived almost every day of my editorial career with that looming threat. And all because I’m a woman who has dared to express her opinion on pop culture.I got into entertainment media in part because I just really loved to watch TV. A child of the ’80s, I grew up with basically unlimited access to whatever was on the tube at that time, from Three’s Company to MTV Spring Break. I developed a thirst for content, be it movies, TV, books or magazines, and went to college to study journalism like my parents. I wanted to write for Spin or Entertainment Weekly, two publications I’d always been thrilled to see come in the mail. My professors didn’t really know how to get me there, though, and I left college a little disillusioned with the industry. Instead, I took my college radio hobby and turned it into a career in the music business. Fast-forward a couple of years and boom, I met some cool people through music that worked at an entertainment website and thought I could do what they did. They invited me to come work for them, and I was thrilled. I remember that I told them it was my dream job to get paid to write about things I already loved. “Ha,” they laughed. “We wouldn’t go that far.” Still, then, over a decade ago, I really thought it was true.

Looking at the entertainment journalism market even now, I think I somehow fucked up.

Pop Culture Media Has Gone From Bad to Worse

The longer I’ve been in the business, the worse it’s become. Since we’ve moved into the “pivot to video” era of digital media, I’ve also faced frequent unsolicited comments about my appearance, my weight and my vocal affect. I was called a “rhino” in the comments on one video years ago and have thought about it every day since. “Who cares?” my co-workers said. “They’re trolls!” But they were all average-looking white guys and never got those kinds of comments, so how much did they really know? I’ve also faced inequality and uncertainty in my newsrooms, where I’ve frequently been surrounded by men with an outright disdain for anything they don’t consider “serious cinema,” i.e., anything that’s not made by men and with the male gaze in mind. I’ve second-guessed every pitch I’ve made, every opinion I’ve had and every base of knowledge I’ve grown. “I clearly don’t know about the right things,” I’ve thought. “How stupid of me.”While a lot has changed in the media industry in the past decade, with many newsrooms becoming more diverse and shining a light on a wider spectrum of stories, entertainment media has managed to both expand and contract at the same time. While creators are diversifying their casting and stories, publishers are also realizing that the stories that drive clicks are the ones about the movies and shows that bring in big numbers, and increasingly, those projects are centered around just a few franchises. Looking for a new full-time gig, I’ve come across more than one senior-level job listing that read like this one I saw recently: “You will be an expert in the field who knows your MCU from your DCEU, your James Bond from your Jack Reacher and your Jedi from your Jawa.” That wasn’t for a gig at a niche comic-centric publication, either—it was for a fairly wide-read and well-respected entertainment site. But as I read it, I just thought what it was really saying was, “Women of a certain age need not apply.”

Women Are Superfans Too—Just for Different Stuff

Looking at the entertainment journalism market even now, I think I somehow fucked up. My interests are wrong. By liking what I liked, and not making a choice 35 years ago to get into a more Comic-Con-friendly sphere, I have made myself the enemy of clicks. I’ve become obsolete because, as the market and our publishers have told us, who really cares about what people like you like? I like a good superhero movie as much as the next person, I really do. I’ve seen them all, and, like any good critic, I have my thoughts about them. But I didn’t grow up enmeshed in the comics. I lived on basic cable, not premium. You can ask me anything about MTV in the ’80s and ’90s, but I’ve never seen a Christopher Reeve Superman movie. My parents didn’t really watch movies and we never went as a family, so what I got into—whether it was Sweet Valley High or Jane magazine—I had to discover organically. I followed the paths that I encountered fervently, but for whatever reason, they just never led me toward superheroes and graphic novels.As a 40-year-old woman, I certainly grew up knowing kids who were into Star Wars, including my brother, but couldn’t tell you a single girl who I went to school with who may have done Leia cosplay on the weekends. That’s not to say that there weren’t girls who were Superman diehards who’ve grown into women who know the difference between X-wings and TIE Fighters. (There are, and I know a few.) But that’s not me. Instead, I have an encyclopedic knowledge of romantic comedies, pulpy tween novels of the ’80s and ’90s, and ’60s sitcoms. It’s always such a surprise to me when publishers or male coworkers are shocked by the success of projects like Bridgerton, Outlander or 50 Shades Of Grey. Yes, they’re all sexy, and people like good steamy action, but also they’re all indications that the market supports and craves content created in part by and directed at women. And moreover, the market craves smart criticism, creative features and broad coverage about and around those shows. Entertainment sites should be looking for writers just as versed in that world, not just writers with thoughts on Marvel’s fourth phase or who was the best Batman. (Christian Bale, duh.)Speaking of comic book movies and other cinematic juggernauts, I believe that, with the size of audiences going to see those movies, perhaps not everyone in the theaters is there just because they really care about plot development or Jack Kirby’s legacy. Tom Holland’s Spider-Man is incredibly popular, and a lot of fans of those movies are young women who were drawn to the work in part because they thought the actor was kind of a dish. There are people who like the romance in the films, the queer subtexts, the gender politics and the increasingly diverse on-screen world just as much as they might like the whizz-bang battle scenes. Let’s write for them just as much as we write for straight-up superfans.

When pop culture journalism narrows its focus and concentrates on content over quality, it’s detrimental to the fabric of cultural discourse.

Making Media More Diverse Is Good for Everyone

I understand that some of my dreams and hopes might be tantamount to shouting at the sea, but it would truly be great if readers also grew to respect and appreciate a diversity of entertainment coverage. Or perhaps the onus should be on publishers, who could take chances on stories their staff felt strongly about and not just ones they knew would be guaranteed click drivers. I’m aware it’s a big ask when so many media companies are run by conglomerates, private equity groups and men focused more on the clickability of content than the actual substance of the work, but that doesn’t mean I can’t dream, pitch and advocate for the level of intelligence and diversity that I believe audiences have. There are times when I think about my career that I truly can’t believe that, in some ways, I feel just as ashamed and uninformed as I did my first year on the job. I curse my interests and my family and think I should have spent more time reading comics anthologies and fantasy novels, despite the fact that I couldn’t have predicted what the media landscape would come. But what I know in my heart—and have always known—is that when pop culture journalism narrows its focus and concentrates on content over quality, it’s detrimental to the fabric of cultural discourse. A more diverse media landscape not only benefits reporters but also serves a larger swath of its readers, many of whom hardly ever feel spoken to or heard, whether it’s by mass-market television, in popular magazines or even in their own lives and families. By giving everyone—reporters and readers alike— a voice and a safe place to find joy, entertainment journalism can only grow.

All of my life, I had been a couch potato. A bed potato, really. My bed was my best friend and my comfort zone. I’d watch TV, study, eat, read, write and do whatever possible from my very comfortable, very safe bed. Back then, my only exercise was walking to my refrigerator in order to get a snack and then crawling right back under my sheets. It took a while for me to realize that life happens outside of my bed. When I finally did, I threw myself right into the deep end. I started planning a trip that would challenge my physical limitations unlike anything I had ever done before.My journey through Colombia led me to Santa Marta, a city renowned for the natural park of Tayrona, a wildlife sanctuary that is practically heaven on earth. Yet, it wasn’t for this that I had traveled there. It was the Ciudad Perdida, the lost city of Teyuna, an ancient settlement located in the middle of the jungle of the Sierra Nevada mountain range. Built some 1,200 years ago, this city is an archaeological remnant of the Tairona people, who inhabited the lands until the Spanish conquest. It had been lost to the world until the 1970s, when some tomb raiders stumbled upon it in search of riches. Pretty soon, I’d be stumbling upon those same ruins myself! That was what I was waiting for, a four-day trek in the middle of nowhere that promised not only the sight of ruins thought to have been long lost but also the rediscovery of something I had long lost within me. I started my journey with a bag that weighed just as much as I did, victualed with all of the food and supplies I’d need on the hike, plus some extra supplies in case of an apocalypse. Vistas and panoramas that belonged on a National Geographic cover had me in ecstasy. Every leaf of every tree seemed to be the most interesting thing I had ever seen. I was surrounded by butterflies of all kinds and colors; woodpeckers, hummingbirds and parrots; flowers of all hues and shapes; exotic fruit and weird plants. Up and down we climbed, crossing over dilapidated bridges and traversing rivers. We trekked along the banks of the Buritaca River, following narrow paths that were shared by the natives and their mules. The scenery only got more unreal as days went by. I felt so profoundly lucky to be able to experience such an adventure.

Every leaf of every tree seemed to be the most interesting thing I had ever seen.

Getting to the Lost City Wasn’t Easy

The long-awaited third day was upon us—the day we’d get to see the Lost City. I couldn’t believe our party were almost there. All battered, bruised and blistered, I had persevered. There was a long way to go, but I felt reinvigorated. My body had already grown accustomed to the trail, my stamina now not so elusive. At the break of dawn, we had already left camp and started on our way to the promised land. The Buritaca River was now waist-deep and as fast-flowing as ever. We had to cross its twists and turns over and over until suddenly, the foliage gave way to an opening that marked the start of the trail into Teyuna. I knew it wasn’t going to be easy. The final trail was only 300 meters long, but they were at an incline as straight as a stud’s back; 1,200 steps to climb, each a slab of slippery, moss-covered rock. As we ascended the trail, the air became thin and cold. Every breath I took felt like it was skinning my lungs raw. My heart was pounding in my chest as sweat dripped down my eyes. “Almost halfway through,” I said to myself on the 500th step. Little did I know how much hard work went into that “almost.” The others were all far ahead, and I was left alone, damning and cursing every single step. There I was, every fiber of my being in pain, my calves now as solid as the same steps I was climbing, mosquitoes feasting on whatever blood I had remaining. But I climbed and climbed and then climbed some more, and finally, I was there.

All Our Hard Work Was Worth It

I had read all about the Lost City’s glory, but as I lay there, I realized no description nor photo could have ever done it justice. It was like something straight out of the film El Dorado. I could breathe in the history and the magic of it all. It was eerily peaceful, pure, a place that felt untainted by the scourge of mankind. All the pain and exhaustion? Gone, extinct, vanished into thin air. The beauty left me in tears. As we sat down at the entrance, the guides told us that the city consisted of a sequence of terraces carved in rocks, connected to each other by tiled paths. Smaller circular plazas, covered in grass and encircled by moss-covered slabs, dotted the city. These, we were told, were what remained of the huts that were previously inhabited by the natives before the city was abandoned. As we roamed about, the group was oddly silent. There was no need for words. It felt as if speaking would take something away from the sanctity of the place. As we walked, our guide recounted the tales that had been buried away for so long. He told us about the Tairona’s traditions, their culture, their customs. So different, yet so similar to ours in principle. Happiness in simplicity—this is what I had been missing. I was too enthralled in things that were now evidently unimportant. I had grown up running around my father’s field back home in Malta, half an acre’s worth of arable land where he used to grow all kinds of stuff; filling our bellies with the plumpest and flavorful veggies and our home with plants and flowers of all sorts. I’d explore and go on all kinds of adventures with my dad. I had forgotten all about this. I was suddenly reminded of my roots, of where I had come from. Somehow, against all odds and logic, I had known that this was where I’d find my answer—that I’d rediscover myself in the depths of the jungle in the middle of Colombia.Finally, we reached the highest point of the site: a ledge overlying the entire city that gave us a vista unlike any other, which words fall short in describing. Surrounded by the lush, verdant mountains of the Sierra Nevada on all sides, we could see a series of five circular terraces, each wider and more elevated than the last, linked together by a tiled trail hewn in all shades of green.

The beauty left me in tears.

Seeing Teyuna Was a Spiritual Experience

But it wasn’t until we were all standing on the largest terrace that it suddenly occurred to me—to all of us, really. A feeling seemed to resonate with us all, in unison and in harmony. “We really are nothing in this world,” I heard myself saying. Standing there, in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a mountain range we had come to call home after just a couple of days, we felt like we were absolutely nothing. Not in the nihilistic sense that nothing we do matters or leaves an impact; more in the sense that in being nothing, we are also everything. I know it sounds vague, but that’s exactly how we all felt. We were suddenly aware that we are all part of a “great something,” that we as individuals are nothing, but together, we are whole. Nature is a part of that wholeness. I felt alive for the first time in years. I could feel the raw, untapped power of everything that surrounded me. I lay flat on the ground, rolling on the grass, absorbing all of it. Every breeze gave me energy, the sun on my face gave me a warmth unlike no other, the earth underneath felt like an extension of my being. I felt connected. I was in my father’s field once again. I could hear him calling me for the first time since he died. The voice I had missed so much was now so loud in my head, I burst into tears.I had gotten all that I had come for. Now we had to walk all the way back. We’d be passing through the same paths with nothing new to see. We’d be saying goodbye the following day. I had moaned and groaned all the way there, but at that moment, all I could think of was how I’d manage to go back to normal life. But I knew I wouldn’t be returning to the life I had before—I had been reborn.

My ex-boyfriend was obsessed with meat. In fact, he was so obsessed with meat that it bordered on pathological. An average evening at our place went something like this: He’d order in vast quantities of hot wings, burgers or fried chicken, then put on a YouTube mukbang as he ate—watching bigger, meatier men shovel down more food than he could manage, in some bizarre cuckolding ritual.My ex felt no shame about his meat consumption. He saw meals without meat as unworthy and would look down on vegans and vegetarians as if they were some sort of absurd alien species put on Earth for his entertainment. I’d laugh at his jokes, but deep down harbored a tremendous amount of guilt from consuming animals and had for some time. I’d watched and cried over Cowspiracy, Seaspiracy and every video essay on factory farming I could find—but found it shamefully difficult to translate their messages into reality, usually managing a few weeks without meat before caving in. It wasn’t his fault, but it didn’t help that my ex was such a fussy eater. It made sense for us to eat the same things, and there were only three or four home-cooked meals he absolutely loved. All of them contained meat.At the same time, we were growing apart, in general. Our five-year-long relationship was bone dry in other areas, and our dietary preferences were indicative of a wider gulf emerging between us—one where neither person respected the other’s interests and passions. In the end, we broke up for non-meat-related reasons, and once he moved out, I stopped cooking with it at home. Eating at restaurants, though, was a different story. I was always aching to delve into anything dense, fried and animal-derived. I needed something major to shift, something to force me to take meat off the back burner and throw it in the trash for good. Then, I met Tristan.

I was enamored by his boundless devotion to the lives of other beings.

I Felt an Instant Connection With Tristan

I matched with Tristan on a dating app last October, the same night I watched The Green Knight at the movie theater. I found this oddly felicitous—Tristan was a vegan chef, animal rights activist and the pseudonym he’d chosen originated from Arthurian legend, the very embodiment of a green knight. We’d spent a few hours texting before I went into the screening—I remember desperately wishing, yearning for the movie and its questionable sex scenes to be over, so I could recommence salivating over his pictures and fantasizing about fucking him instead.A few days later, we met up at a nearby pub. It was exhilarating—within 10 seconds of us locking eyes, I felt chemistry so intense, it incapacitated me. He was utterly gorgeous in person, with beautiful (if unwashed), long hair, tattoos and tired, sad eyes—a delicious blend of every man I’ve ever been obsessed with since I discovered what men were. Our conversation was slightly staggered and difficult, as if we both knew what would unfold and were simply delaying the inevitable for as long as possible before digging in and devouring each other. Still, I tried my best to listen and make small talk. I had to be polite. We spent a substantial chunk of the date discussing the activism he did: protesting for animal rights groups in the city, building shelters for baby animals in the winter, breaking into farms to prevent horses from being euthanized. I was enamored by his boundless devotion to the lives of other beings. It was a welcome change from most of the men I’d dated previously, my ex included—men so fixated on upholding a masculine image that the very acknowledgment of kindness threatened their sensitive palates. I wondered if Tristan’s respect for animals translated into respect for women. I wondered—eyeing him up and down like a snack—if he’d be better in bed.Within two hours, we’d given into our most animalistic instincts, kissing messily and aggressively, to the dismay of nearby onlookers. Not wanting to put on a show, I dragged him out of the pub and across the park to my place, my brand-new leather Doc Martens cruelly lacerating the backs of my feet as I walked. Tristan had made it clear that he wasn’t a militant vegan and that he didn’t care what I consumed or wore—but already, I was feeling the first sprinklings of shame setting in as I tried to conceal my fashion choices. After a lifetime of being trained for male approval, I wanted him to adore me, and I knew, in his mind, there was nothing less sexy than a girl wearing cow carcasses on her feet. Back at mine, we had some of the best sex I’d had in years. Not only did we share many of the same kinks, I found myself feeling so relaxed in his presence that I came multiple times, which doesn’t usually happen. He was passionate, communicative and considerate—a welcome tonic after I’d been force-fed, begrudgingly, on a meager diet of lackluster fucking that had been gradually reduced over the years until there was nothing left. The sex was so good, in fact, that within hours of him leaving the next morning, we’d already debriefed each other about how things went and arranged to meet up again.

Tristan Made Me Curious About the Benefits of a Plant-Based Diet

Quickly, Tristan and I fell into a friends-with-benefits-type situation.We’d see each other weekly and have sex all night, leaving my flatmates eternally sleep-deprived and each other equal parts stuffed and hungry for more. I was completely blown away by his sexual appetite—not only did he taste better than any man I’d ever encountered but he could just go and go for hours without even needing to break. I soon wondered whether these things were related to his diet. I wondered if eating like him would award me the same energy levels, the same almost-scentless soft skin, the same strength and abundance of orgasms. Partly through narcissism but predominantly through shame, I began to eat fully vegan on days that I’d see Tristan. “He won’t want to kiss me if I’ve eaten meat,” I thought—my lips suddenly a vessel for decades of dead flesh, the bodies of animals from before times still resting on my tongue like passengers on some warped Noah’s Ark. This soon extended to dairy too. Tristan had commented, after once being erroneously served a chai latte with cow’s milk, that he felt a thick, mucus-like film develop in his mouth and linger there for the rest of the day. I couldn’t let him taste that on me. I didn’t want to be the milk film girl. It was ironic that I was so afraid of pushing my diet onto a man when I had allowed my own to be dictated by who I was dating my whole life. But as I saw the benefits of a plant-based diet take hold on my own body—as my acne cleared up, my hair grew thicker and my joints stopped aching—it became clear that this decision benefited me as much as it did him. I gradually realized that rather than diluting myself for Tristan, I had been starving myself previously, pushing away what I had always known was best for my body, animals and the planet. I began to reclaim my diet. I stopped eating meat and dairy in any capacity, started watching vegan vlogs and TED Talks on YouTube to educate myself and began collating vegan recipes and cooking them for friends. I relished this time I spent nourishing and replenishing my body and mind. I felt like I knew myself better than I had in years.

I felt like I knew myself better than I had in years.

Being Meat-Free Has Improved My Life

Eventually, I stopped seeing Tristan as often. We still see each other, but our relationship is far more platonic now than it was during our sex marathons. It’s not that what we felt in each other died—though it has certainly been distilled—but rather that our lives began to overflow and swell with other, more pressing activities. He threw himself headfirst into more activism, exercise and a new job at a vegan charity cafe, and I spent time rebuilding my self-esteem and reclaiming my sexuality after my failed relationship and other interpersonal trauma. I now follow a plant-based diet during the week and eat more broadly vegetarian on weekends. Although I’ve not managed to 100 percent eradicate dairy and eggs just yet, I haven’t eaten meat in months, and I plan to never do so again. I’ll forever be grateful for the fire Tristan ignited in me and for allowing me to peel back the layers of myself I had once deemed inaccessible. At first, I felt guilty that all of this had been triggered by a man and not the visible slaughter of innocent animals—but I spoke to other friends and realized how common it is to adapt the diets of those we care about before eventually embracing them as our own. At the end of the day, activism comes in all forms, and sinking your teeth into someone new is seemingly just as effective as disseminating propaganda or rallying for animal rights.In terms of my bedroom activities, I recently had sex with a man who did keto, consuming no carbs and instead supplementing with a substantial amount of meat, and it was as awful as it sounds. Going forward, I think I’ll keep not just meat—but also men who eat it—off the menu as well.

It was morning. I lay in bed, waiting for my brain to wake up and checking my social media when a post caught my eye. A group of women in professional attire stood in a conference hall, smiling and laughing. The author of the post discussed the wonderful experience she had with her community at a recent conference. I checked out the organization, and my rush of hope faded. It was a women’s group, promising professional community based around womanhood. The community part sounded great. The womanhood part, not so much. Even before I identified as nonbinary, I balked at the idea of joining a professional group for women. In graduate school, I declined to take part in groups for women in science. After all, I already had community. I had mentorship. My resistance to women’s professional groups made more sense when I realized that my gender identity doesn’t include womanhood. It wasn’t resistance to the idea of a community for women; it was resistance to the assumption that I was a woman. My gender identity includes aspects of both traditional femininity and masculinity but not in a way that instills a sense of womanhood or manhood. I am nonbinary. But gender identity is only one part of me. My love of learning and the value I place on collegial friendships are also part of who I am. For a long time, my job met my needs for learning and professional community.

I’m witnessing the celebration of a culture that is not my own. It is wonderful, but it is not mine.

I Sought Community During a Career Transition

Then came a cross-country move, and geography limited the jobs available in my field. I needed more options. So I tapped into the programs and communities that were available to me as a military spouse. I thought I might find common ground with others seeking career advice and guidance.I felt out of place. On paper, these were groups for military spouses, but in practicality, most members were women. I tried to ignore the pang of frustration whenever someone shared or started a post with, “Hey ladies!” Although there were men in the groups, most photos featured women. They projected an image of polished, professional femininity. I didn’t see myself represented among them with my menswear and short, masculine haircut—I felt pressure to be more polished, more professional to make up for my nontraditional appearance. Conversations about work-life balance were viewed overwhelmingly through the frame of balancing children with a career. I struggled with the implications that motherhood was a valid reason to prioritize work-life balance, while simply wanting more freedom was not. I especially struggled with the occasional comment suggesting that motherhood was obligatory and inescapable for any person who happened to have a uterus.Still, people shared useful resources, and I found programs geared toward providing mentorship. That sounded perfect—I had greatly valued the mentorship I received in academia. Maybe a mentor was just what I needed.Over the following weeks, I had dozens of casual discussions with the mentors in the program. My goal was to understand their career paths and insights. I appreciated the conversations and valued the time of those who spoke with me. Still, I received comments suggesting that some saw my advanced degree as a defect, as evidence I possessed no “real” work experience. The comments added up: an implication that my interest in multiple career fields was a symptom of naivete, a suggestion that I needed extra hand-holding in the job search process, a warning that I should expect to endure extra scrutiny to prove my competence. And, in turn, I felt my mentors’ views on work and professional identity were stifling.Moreover, I expected that resources or groups these mentors might direct me to would be related to profession rather than gender. I didn’t mention my gender identity in these conversations and certainly not that I feel like an imposter in women’s groups; none of that seemed relevant. I did not expect to be shunted toward so many resources, groups and programs for women.

The Mentorship and Community I Found Felt Rigid and Stifling

For several years, I considered transitioning into tech. From the outside, there were career paths that looked stable, portable and intellectually stimulating. Yet, most positions required additional knowledge or at least a substantial reframing of my current skill set. I knew I needed a road map, and this seemed like a great topic to bring up during my networking conversations. However, I didn’t get what I hoped for. One male mentor reacted in utter surprise when I described my interest in tech. I thought a mentor might appreciate my willingness to learn and see what I saw as obvious parallels between my scientific background and technical concepts. Instead, he reacted as though coding was wholly outside my capacity to learn. He and another male mentor tried to redirect me toward customer service jobs instead. I came away feeling demoralized and foolish. Still, I knew these were only two people and their opinions didn’t need to matter to me. But the more I learned about jobs in tech, the more the gender disparity was obvious. I weighed the time and money involved in pursuing a boot camp or another degree. As it happened, the other military spouse communities offered something to defray the costs: scholarships to tech boot camps. For women.I did more research and found information on several other scholarships, programs and groups to help aid the transition into tech—for women. I tried to tell myself it was just branding; the goal seemed to be to level the playing field in an industry dominated by men. But I couldn’t shake the thought of being prescribed a label of "woman" just to get access to those career resources.Ultimately, I decided not to pursue a career in technology.

I came away feeling demoralized and foolish.

I Want a Professional Community That Acknowledges All Marginalized Genders

I’ve quietly taken my leave of many military spouse communities. But even outside those spaces, I regularly run across professional communities that appeal to me until I see they are branded for women and only women. When I look at the websites or social media from these groups, I see women with big smiles. Their attire is feminine. Long hair cascades down their shoulders and, if their hair is short, it still retains femininity. They hug each other, exchanging knowing looks as they bask in community, understanding and sisterhood. When I see womanhood in this context, I’m witnessing the celebration of a culture that is not my own. It is wonderful, but it is not mine. Somehow, being short, lacking facial hair, having round thighs or something else about my body prompts strangers to call me “ma’am.” I don’t understand why my body is viewed as my identity. When I try to wear women’s clothes, I want to rip the soft, thin fabric off. It hugs curves that I view as a quirk of biology rather than an integral part of who I am. When I see women smiling in solidarity with each other, I understand they are experiencing something that I do not. I’ve learned those spaces aren’t for me. The trade-off is too steep, and I can no longer stomach invalidating my sense of self for a shred of professional community. And yet, what I want out of a community feels minimal. I want a good faith effort to use gender-neutral pronouns for me. And I want collegial friendships that don’t involve assumptions about my experience based on my gender. I want a community where we can acknowledge the impact of gender on our professional lives while including people of all genders. It doesn’t feel like a lot to ask for, but I haven’t found it yet. I’ll keep looking. But in the meantime, I try my best to forge professional connections with individuals rather than groups. Maybe one day we’ll have a community of our own.

I am the daughter of a mistress. Nothing prepares you for the gravity of this realization, especially when you find out as a child.For the most part, and on a surface level, my childhood was pretty great. I had a brother and two sisters and dogs. It was an idyllic life—so idyllic that I never really gave much thought to how my siblings came to be. In my small and unevolved mind, we were the byproducts of my parents. I believed my mom was their biological mother and my dad was their biological dad.I’ll never forget the day that all changed. I was about 7 years old. During our scheduled break in primary school, conversations in our class group turned to our birthdays and those of our siblings. When it got to my turn, I proudly and happily told everyone. But my classmate quickly noticed that my siblings and I were too close in age to be blood-related and told me so. He proceeded to grill me in front of the others and called me a liar. I was livid. I didn’t want to believe him. Still, I couldn't shake the uncomfortable feeling that he was right. For some time before that encounter, certain things had happened that led these questions to take root. I had wondered why their skin was fair but mine was dark or why my extended family was hostile toward me or why my brother and sisters always kept me at arm's length. These questions constantly played in my mind.In many ways, finding out that my brother and sisters were my half-siblings lifted the veil. Things that I had ignored and neatly tucked away in my mind began to resurface. From that moment, it felt like the existing chasm that I was once blinded by in my family became apparent. All of a sudden, I began to understand why, underneath it all, I had always felt like an outsider in my family.

When I found out, I wanted to confront my parents, but I didn’t dare.

I Couldn’t Confront My Parents About Their Secret History

Before my mother, my dad was married to a woman from the same ethnic group. They had three children: a boy and two girls. Somewhere along the line, he met my mother, who had a different ethnicity than him. They fell in love and began a relationship that eventually led to marriage. At that time, tribalism was a big deal, so marrying a person of a different race wasn't encouraged and, naturally, my dad's family had issues with the whole thing.While the details surrounding his first marriage—or how he ended up with sole custody of the kids—are murky at best, my parents did everything in their power to raise us as one big happy family. Truth be told, I don’t even remember how I met my siblings. Still, I was happy to live in this particular harmonious reality. But like with all things, life had other plans. When I found out the truth about my siblings, I was angry. I was angry because it became clear as day that my mother was the other woman. Even as a child, I understood what that meant, and I felt shame.When I found out, I wanted to confront my parents, but I didn’t dare. For one, I was a child. And two, I was a child of African parents growing up in an African home, where you dared not question your parents. Besides, how do you bring up the topic of your mother being a mistress? To this day, my dad has never outright said his children were my half-siblings or acknowledged his past or the coldness of his family toward me and my mom. Still, my mom, in her own way, has dropped hints about what we were.

I Will Never Have the Same Relationship With My Siblings as They Have With Each Other

Looking back, the cracks were always there. Like the time I was called dark and ugly by my aunt or the time I was hauled off in the middle of the night from my grandparents' house in the village to stay in a roach-infested hotel.Back then, I didn’t fully understand what was happening, but as I got older, my mother filled in the blanks. In one of the limited bonding sessions we had, she told me what really happened that night. The story goes that we left the village because of a huge blowup between my dad and his family. Knowing that we would be visiting, they had brought another woman from the same ethnic group for him to marry. But he refused to budge from his decision to marry my mother.Instead, he cut off his family and we ended up in a hotel. Eventually, they reconciled, but I have never felt welcomed. I watched as my dad's family accepted my other siblings, showering them with affection, while largely ignoring me and giving me the cold shoulder. I never got to experience their generosity, and try as I might to have a relationship with my aunts, uncles and grandparents, I was greeted with the air of “know your place.”What's worse was that the distance I felt with my extended family had begun to take root with my brother and sisters. Between them was a palpable love and understanding, full of inside jokes and a sense of togetherness. But those feelings were never extended to me. I was jealous and desperately wanted to be a part of their crew, but I always felt shut out and was effectively told that I wasn’t a part of them.Perhaps this is why my mother was so hard on me. I never understood why, as a teen, she would harp on about how I had to work hard because eyes were on me, judging me. I got the feeling that any misstep on my part reflected on her. If I was a good child, I would be accepted. I didn't have the luxury of making a mistake. I had to be perfect, and if I wasn't, I had to put up the appearance of being perfect. Years later, I now understand that this was her fucked up way of proving she belonged in the family.

I was called dark and ugly by my aunt.

It Hurts Knowing I Will Never Have a Real Relationship With My Half-Siblings

While I love my parents, I hate what they did because affairs are never simple. They leave broken families, mistrust and anger in their wake. But most of all, they are a cowardly way out with consequences that can’t be ignored. What's more, my parents’ determined silence on the whole thing pisses me off. Whenever I try to broach the subject, I am shut down. I am fed crumbs that never nourish or satisfy my inquiries. Save for a few revelations here and there on my mother's part, I have nothing. This incessant desire on their part to keep a faux-united front has led to splintered relationships. Their reluctance to talk about what happened led to one of my sisters wanting nothing to do with me and my mom. Even though we were never close, her decision hurt. Still, I understand why she did it and can’t blame her. As for my other siblings, I have accepted that I will never fully be part of their lives in the way they are with each other, so I accept the relationship we have now.As for the rest of my extended family, I have made the decision to sever our relationships. I was tired of their hateful, vindictive nature and their thinly veiled threats. Coming to terms with this decision was hard, but in all honesty, I was tired of fighting to be seen and accepted, especially by people who did not want to see or accept me. And while family is great, it isn't worth sacrificing my self-worth in order to be accepted.

Being a journalist, I have, on several occasions, written about homophobia and the numerous struggles the Kenyan LGBTQ community encounters daily.To survive in the largely conservative and homophobic society, gay people in Kenya are forced to live a rather secretive life and forego many things, including religion, education, family and employment. Most churches reject LGBTQ people; they face discrimination in schools, forcing many to drop out; many get rejected by families once they come out as gay; and government institutions are reluctant to employ gay people.Just like in many African countries, the Kenyan public detests gay people to an extent of seeing them as outcasts. In Kenya, gays are held in utmost contempt. The Kenyan constitution lists healthcare as a human right that should be accessible and affordable to all Kenyans without any form of discrimination based on religion, gender, age, social status or tribe, but for gay people, this right is often and openly disregarded and violated. Under Kenyan law, homosexuality is outlawed, and government institutions and the public take advantage of this to humiliate, intimidate, harass and extort people believed to be gay or gay-friendly.In Kenyan public hospitals and prisons, homophobia is rife. Ask any gay person in Kenya and they will tell you the two places they would wish not to visit are public hospitals and prison.

Just like in many African countries, the Kenyan public detests gay people to an extent of seeing them as outcasts.

I Was Refused Treatment Because I Had an STI

My experience with homophobia in a public hospital was a nasty one: It almost drove me into committing suicide. I’m thankful for the swift action from a gay support group; otherwise, mine would have been a nasty story.What started as a simple rash on my genitals turned out to be the worst experience of my life. For weeks, I had experienced some sort of discomfort in my ass when walking or while sitting. The rashes had spread all over my genital area, and this got me worried. At first, I had assumed that maybe it was a simple allergic reaction that would disappear with time. But as days passed, the condition worsened, and after a month of suffering in silence, it was evident that something was not right.Visiting a government hospital confirmed my worst fears: It turned out that I had contracted a sexually transmitted infection.Tests confirmed that I had been infected with human papillomavirus (HPV), which resulted in acute anal warts.But at that point, the news of an STI did not even shock me like the reception and treatment I received from the healthcare workers at the government-run health facility. “Huyu ni shoga; kujeni muone shoga,” (meaning “this one is gay; come and see a gay person”) the doctor shouted. Shoga is a Swahili word and Kenyan slang for a gay person.“So how did you get infected with a disease for women?” the doctor thundered, sending shivers down my spine.Within no time, the doctor’s room was full of nurses who had come to witness my predicament.At this point, my wish was only one: that the earth would open and offer me an escape route out of the room.For a moment, pain from the anal warts had disappeared and was replaced with pain from the mockery and ridicule I was receiving from people who ought to have given me consolation, comfort and care.“Here we don’t treat gay people,” one nurse shouted from a corner of the room.“This is satanic. These people [gays] are the cause of all calamities in this country,” a second nurse interjected.All this time, nobody seemed to be feeling my pain. To them, I deserved it.Being a journalist, I summoned some courage and confronted them, asking them to view me as any other patient and not as a gay person.“With all due respect, doctor, just look at me as any other patient and treat me with dignity,” I thundered, but the good doctor paid by the taxpayer could hear none of it.The doctor stood his ground and, as if adding salt to injury, told me that the STI was a “punishment from God.” He ordered me out of his room and directed me to go and seek traditional medicine because according to him, my sickness was a curse from the heavens.“Stop having sex with men or you will die like a dog,” were the doctor’s words that followed me as he ushered me out of his room.Dejected and abused, I walked out of the hospital with two things: a story (as a journalist) and pain (as a patient).

Within no time, the doctor’s room was full of nurses who had come to witness my predicament.

I Got the Assistance I Needed Through an Underground Organization

I felt unwanted and unworthy. With the pain (both physical and emotional) still raging, I moved into self-isolation in my house, far from the world which seemed to work against me.For two weeks, alone and helpless, I thought of taking my own life, but on seeing my mother’s portrait hanging on my wall, a second voice would tell me to hold on.And with the effects of the STI becoming worse, I had to break the silence and find a solution.Through my journalistic connections, I approached a local secret gay support group in our city and search for help. The group, which operates secretly for fear of government crackdown, links LGBTQ people in need of medical assistance to private clinics and medical personnel who offer LGBTQ-friendly services. The group runs secret safe spaces where LGBTQ people who are sick, victims of violence or those being targeted can seek refuge.“Your condition seems serious,” the director of the lobby group told me before I could even narrate my ordeal to him.I was booked in one of the rooms inside the safe house, and within an hour, a venereologist was at hand to examine my situation. I was put on intravenous fluids for three hours as tests were carried out. I commenced treatment immediately after the doctor recommended that I could still receive treatment at the safe house without being admitted to a hospital.After a week of treatment, my body was on a full recovery path, and hope was restored.Thankfully, the lobby group paid for my treatment and even got me enrolled in a gay support group to help heal the trauma caused from my experience at the government hospital.

LGBT-Friendly Health Centers in Kenya Provide Life-Saving Care

Hundreds of gay people in Kenya, especially those from rural areas where support groups are scarce, are forced to endure pain and suffering in silence any time they contract STIs for fear of facing homophobia in government hospitals.However, in the last 10 years, civil organizations and rights groups are teaming up with doctors and medical personnel to set up health facilities and centers that are LGBTQ-friendly to offer services to LGBTQ people who face victimization in government hospitals. The centers offer free testing for all sexually transmitted infections, treatment of STDs, referrals for specialized treatment, free antiretroviral drugs, free condoms, as well as offering free lubrication fluids. Apart from offering medical services, the LGBTQ-friendly centers also act as counseling points for gay couples, safe centers for gays people who are in danger, as well as training centers.Such free and accessible services being offered by such organizations are coming in handy for the LGBTQ community in Kenya so they no longer must battle infections and sickness in silence for fear of being victimized in government hospitals whenever they seek treatment.

“People bond more deeply over shared brokenness than they do over shared beliefs.” – Heather KoppI worship Jesus Christ. Let’s get that straight right away. I cannot remember a time I didn’t believe in this long-haired, white-robed man who walked on earth for 33 years, was crucified, died and buried. He, from the very beginning, was tangible, reachable and relatable.Even as a little girl, I knew with a kind of knowing only a child has there was somebody all-powerful watching over me; not a measly cloud or a spiritual universe but a real, living, breathing God. I didn’t need to be convinced or brainwashed by those fanatical extremists who shoved their religion down your throat like a bad meal. I only knew a Jesus who loved me unconditionally. That was enough.Thus, in later years, I was surprised, sort of, that my Christianity wasn’t up to snuff with my fellow Christian soldiers. I wasn’t the right kind of Christian. I didn’t fit into an agreeable box. I was an odd shape of the puzzle that didn’t seem to fit anywhere, any place. And although I tried to squeeze into the frame, I understood I was becoming an inauthentic version of myself.

Some have said I’m not up to Christian guidelines because I voted for Joe Biden.

My Political Beliefs Don’t Make My Faith Less Valid

Some have said I’m not up to Christian guidelines because I voted for Joe Biden, while several members of the church community voted for the twice-impeached, disgraced Donald Trump. I’m positive I’m the only person in the church parking lot with a Biden/Harris bumper sticker, which, by the way, somebody drew mustaches on with vivid black marker. The joke was on them because Kamala was still dazzling with whiskers.I marched during the #MeToo movement, as well, wearing my “nasty woman” T-shirt proudly like a badass with my girlfriends. I raised my fist high, Gloria Steinem-like, shouting, “Time’s up! Together we rise!” Furthermore, I support LGBTQ rights, which are basic human rights, and I have a massive, melting heart for men and women who live inside the wrong bodies.I do not agree that if people believe differently than me, they will be descending into the pits of Hell. If so, six million Jews, along with my beautiful comrade Anne Frank, would be there. I cannot comprehend this cruelty, this kind of brutal God.The God I worship is a lamb, a shepherd, a redeemer and a papa whose lap I sat on for one straight year when my sister was murdered. He comforted me, held me and brushed my long auburn hair. When he promised he would restore my soul and lead me beside the still waters, he wasn’t lying.

I Often Wonder Why I Stay at My Church

I’ve been a member of the same Baptist church for 25 years now. In the past few months, I’ve been contemplating why I stay, why I haven’t walked away, why my heart resides inside the pastel walls even though I don’t fit in any longer.And I’ve come up with several reasons.For one, the charming church ladies, the prayer warriors, the pioneers, who prepared a room for me after my first and second babies were born. The white hair cuties smelling of Avon perfume and Folgers coffee who served me lukewarm tuna hotdish with crushed potato chips, Swedish meatballs, lavish relish trays, rosettes and buttercream cupcakes on delicate white doilies. They cared for me, supported me and, of course, fed me well!I stay because my parents were on the financial board, the Christian education board and headed up the nursery. As a child, I wanted to sit on the hard, wooden pews with them and sing “How Great Thou Art” and “Bless This House.” Even as a grown woman, I wanted them to be proud of my dedication and attendance every Sunday. I want to hold onto the family traditions I grew up with. I want it all.I stay for my late pastor’s wife who read Anne Lamott’s Traveling Mercies and Rachel Held Evans’s Searching for Sunday, my favorite “this is what kind of Christian I want to be” authors. I recall when she told me she had just finished Lamott’s book, how I grasped both of her large hands, jumping up and down in the sanctuary like an excited child who had just been validated and acknowledged for exactly who she was.

I stay for all the wrong reasons.

I Wish the Members of My Church Gave Me the Same Respect I Give Them

I stay for all the wrong reasons.The truth is, I respect these people in the church. The Republicans. The women who protest outside the Planned Parenthood downtown. The men who walk through the church gates wearing their vivid red “Make America Great Again” hats. I only ask that they respect me back.Last year, I changed the profile photo on my Facebook page. I wore my hair in a high bun with chunky, red earrings, and I sported my “nasty woman” T-shirt. Sadly, I received personal messages from so-called Christians stating, “Your faith is upside down and inside out.” “I am sorry you will burn in hell.” “You are a baby killer.” “You are living in darkness.” After reading each message, my heart broke and my spirit diminished. I even received a book in the mail ($15 shipping!) titled The Faith of Donald J. Trump, which I donated to Goodwill. One of the individuals who challenged my beliefs said, “You are moving in the wrong direction.” And although I ignored most of these comments, this one I responded to because I had graduated with her from our local high school, and we had been in English classes together. “Can we meet for coffee and talk? I’m buying!” I didn’t hear from her again. I’m not sure if I’ll ever fit into this Republican Christianity, but I know one thing for damn sure: My relationships and healing have occurred with the brokenness of the people in this world who’ve hugged me tightly and firmly during my darkest, heaviest hours, and honestly, I have no idea what religious affiliations they belong to or don’t belong to. It didn’t matter if they were Christian or Buddhist or nothing at all because they saw me and listened to my story when nobody else did.So yes, I worship Jesus Christ, who was resurrected on the third day, extending his arms fully and abundantly for all of us, everywhere. He hosted a lavish banquet for the damaged, hurting, diminished, marginalized, unseen, unheard, despised and invisible.“Come,” he said. “Sit. Eat. Drink. You belong here.”This is my God.

I was 35 years old and a virgin. It wasn’t from lack of interest; it just never happened. I didn’t know why. Then, I learned I had something called sexual anorexia, which is the compulsive avoidance of sexual activity. I cried when I realized it wasn’t my fault. I finally had the courage to start getting the help I needed. But where to start? “Why don’t you try surrogate partner therapy?” a friend said.I hadn’t heard of it. I learned that a surrogate is someone who models healthy intimacy. If both the surrogate and the client have a connection, a relationship develops between them within a therapeutic structure. My therapist found me a surrogate, and the three of us met up virtually for the first time. When I met Liz, I can honestly say I’d never been more attracted to anyone in my life. If I had seen her on the street, I would’ve walked into a streetlamp. My first thought was, “Wow, she is so attractive.” My second thought was, “I don’t deserve to be with someone like this.”Liz laid out the boundaries: No contact outside the sessions except appointment scheduling; our relationship status was friends who are practicing emotional and physical intimacy; and once my clinical goals had been reached, we would break contact. I told her my goal was to have sex. She told me sex couldn’t be guaranteed, but we would see how it goes. And so we decided to work together. I would meet with Liz, discuss with my therapist and Liz and my therapist would confer. We were a triad. A team. The five months we worked together changed my life.

The five months we worked together changed my life.

I Learned What Intimacy Means to Me

When Liz and I met in person, I was attracted to her physically, emotionally and intellectually. “This is a relationship, and you get to refer to it when dating,” she said to me. “Saying otherwise would be a lie.” We started with a hand caress. “Touch my hand in a way that brings you pleasure,” she said. I had no idea what she was talking about. My pleasure? I’d never thought about it before. I did my best. When she caressed my hand, I felt this loving sensation of being filled up. How about that? 35 years old and caressed for the very first time.In the next session, we cuddled and caressed each other’s faces. Liz fell asleep, though she never admitted it. “I feel really safe with you,” she said. I went home and happy cried.As we met each week, I got a clearer sense of what intimacy was about. It was really about emotional instincts. Liz taught me about communicating intimacy, moment-to-moment consent and how to pursue my own pleasure. She became my friend, partner, teacher and advocate all in one. Before long, we were kissing regularly. She was attracted to me too. I couldn’t believe it! The sessions were supposed to be an hour, but we always ran over. I didn’t mind.Surrogate partner therapy is much different from talk therapy in that mutual attraction is required to build intimacy. It can’t be created. And surrogates have full autonomy over how far things will go. They do non-sexual work, too, of course, but when surrogates are sexual with clients, it’s on a case-by-case basis. This meant, just like in dating, Liz or I could have ended the sessions at any time. This uncertainty was scary but healthy because that is a relationship. It’s always moment to moment. So I took each session as it came. Liz later said that if intimacy were guaranteed, then it wouldn’t be intimacy. For me, it would’ve felt like charity, doing more damage in the process. This healthy emotional risk gave our practice weight.One day, she explained a body image exercise. We both would be at a level of undress I felt comfortable with and talk about our bodies in front of a mirror. I have body dysmorphia and put on COVID weight. The idea of this exercise scared me and, in my fear, I imagined her rejecting me over and over.The day of the exercise, I was terrified. I was so focused on me getting undressed that I forgot she would undress too. When I took off my shirt, she took off hers. I got scared and looked away shyly. “Can I look?” I asked. “Sure,” she said. It was the first time I had been half-naked with a woman. She had a beautiful body. The fear passed and we were just two people in our underwear talking again. Then, she talked about the intimate areas of her body. I was so touched, I felt brave enough to share my biggest body insecurity: I was uncircumcised. My hand shook as I spoke. She said, “Yeah, that’s not common in the U.S., but it is in Europe.” Wait, that was it? And just like that, I had been witnessed. Accepted. I was elated.Before that exercise, I was uncomfortable being shirtless at the beach. After, I started going to nude events and applying to be a nude art model. It’s amazing what healing from trauma can do for you. In less than two weeks, I was comfortable with full mutual nudity.A friend once told me that healing in a relationship doesn’t come from getting validation; it comes from experiencing how my partner sees me. When I witness the way they perceive me, I see myself with a new pair of glasses.

I Was Able to Have Sex for the First Time With My Surrogate Partner

One day, about two months in, Liz brought up sex. Stunned, I asked, “Are we doing that?” “I’m willing to explore that with you,” she said. I was in denial. I couldn’t believe, at 35 years old, it would finally happen.We had an adult sex-ed talk, including a safer sex talk. She taught me to say my arousal level (1 to 10), and we did some preparatory exercises. But it wasn’t until we had our first sexual experience that I knew it was really happening.The first time she touched my penis, the sensation was incredible. Her skill was amazing! “Can I touch you?” I asked. “Sure,” she said excitedly, “go explore!” She told me her likes, and we cocreated our pleasure. When I witnessed the pleasure in her face and voice, my sexual confidence skyrocketed. The following session, as I fingered her for only the second time ever, this woman with a mountain of experience said to me, “You’re really good at that!” More happy crying.The next session was the first milestone. It started when she looked at me and casually said, “How 'bout a blowjob?” Um, yes, please! It was ecstasy. Seeing her enjoy it made me enjoy it even more. Then fear, anger and shame from past trauma started to overwhelm me. In the onslaught of emotions, my brain tried to disassociate, but I fought to stay present. My body was tense at first, but I willed myself to relax. Then, the pleasure wave came, and I just barely squeaked out a “nine” and had an orgasm. “We did it!” she said, laying on top of me. I had stayed present but was emotionally exhausted. I couldn’t even speak. It was all I could do to put my forehead against hers. I was enveloped in a quiet happiness.Then, this sadness came up a few minutes later. All those years I could have been having this. I got angry at myself. “You got your first blowjob and now you’re sad?” I thought. That week, the sexual anorexic urge to quit was strong. A good friend reminded me I was healing from deep trauma. I practiced loving self-kindness. That reflexive urge would happen again, but it always went away before the next session.Next came intercourse. There were obstacles. Initially, premature ejaculation always happened during foreplay. The first time it happened, shame overwhelmed me. Seeing her clean herself off, I felt like this gross thing and projected she thought so too. She reassured me she didn’t think that and it was normal. When I called my penis-having friends, they told me that this happened to them too. And hey, I had never done this before. What did I know? I used mental exercises to last longer. I also did kegels (yes, men can do them) and it worked like a charm.The next obstacle was that every time intercourse started, I would instantly lose my erection. We thought it might be the condoms, but we ruled that out. It could only be an emotional block. Liz said, “I think you’re not ready.” Then, she said, “We’re going to figure this out. Erections always come back,” and she was right. One month of hard work later, I woke up one morning feeling a strong confidence out of nowhere. That week, we had intercourse successfully for the first time: arousal, erection, and orgasm. “We did it,” she said, my favorite verbal high-five. “Yes, we did it,” I gushed. We found our system. “We Gucci,” Liz said. We laughed hysterically. I was so happy. Not just to have the experience but to have it with her. I wasn’t a virgin anymore. Every session, we practiced sex. There were so many happy memories. Those after-sex bed chats were some of the happiest of my life. Like the time we talked about Jack Kerouac and the Beat Generation. I couldn’t decide whether I liked those or the sex more. Or the time I got bold and grabbed her butt while we were making out. She giggled and kept kissing me.I was so excited, we had almost forgotten to practice oral. I had always fantasized about giving a woman head (Liz and I loved our gender-neutral terms), but I was scared. What if reality didn’t live up to fantasy and I hated it? But I loved it! As I excitedly chatted away to my therapist about giving Liz head, he said, “A lot of men are aroused by the female body, but you love the female body.” I beamed.

I wasn’t a virgin anymore.

Liz Helped Me Face My Trauma and See Myself in a New Light

One day, Liz and I were talking about how my mother raised me a second-wave sex-negative feminist. My mother, in her mental illness, had abused me to believe that as a male, I was inherently an assaulter. I thought being sexual with a woman in any way was me assaulting her. No wonder I was scared of sex. I had learned in therapy that in all those years of sexual anorexia, I thought I was protecting women from me.I told Liz how refreshing it was to spend time with a woman who wasn’t only male-positive but penis-positive. She said to me, “Well, I do like a good penis,” and we both laughed. “Even by second-wave sex-negative feminist standards,” she said, “You are it. It doesn’t get any better than you!” More happy crying. More healing.One day in our bed chat, Liz looked at me and said, “I’ve worked myself out of a job; you don’t need me anymore. I’m a proud papa.”In our final session, we had sex and shared a long hug. I dug down into my sadness and told her I was really going to miss her. She made a sad moan, and we both started to cry. I forced myself to walk out the door, and we said goodbye. It was over.I’ll never forget this experience as long as I live. I gained 20 years of maturity and lost 1,000 pounds of spiritual weight. At the time of this writing, I’m dating again and my self-esteem is so high now because of Liz. I know what emotional availability looks like; I hold fast to my boundaries; and I only date women to whom I’m physically attracted. I pursue my own pleasure. I can have it all.Sometimes, the old self-hatred thoughts come up. I’m never cured, after all. Every day, I use my therapy tools to put those thoughts in perspective. So whenever I don’t feel good enough for a relationship, I remember my experiences with Liz. I think of myself the way she saw me. And I see myself, once again, with that new pair of glasses.

Back in college, my friend and I once joked that if we got herpes, we would just kill ourselves. All I knew about herpes at the time was that it was incurable and that there was a huge stigma around it. I thought that if I was ever diagnosed, my dating life would be over, but I thought I would never have to worry about it because it was one of those things that happens to other people, not to me. So when I was diagnosed with herpes six years ago, all of the judgment that I had about it and those people was all turned 180 degrees back on myself.

My heart sank. This was not happening.

I Was Scared and Hurt After I Got My Diagnosis

I got infected without knowing it; the person who gave it to me did not disclose it. When I got my first outbreak, I thought it might be razor burn. But then I went to my doctor, and she took one look at it and asked me, “Have you ever had herpes?” My heart sank. This was not happening. Several days later, I was at work when I got the call about my results and broke down in tears. I was devastated. By the time my outbreak happened and I was diagnosed, I was in a relationship with a new person. He was very supportive and told me he wanted to stay together. And even though he might not have been the perfect person for me, I stayed with him for about a year and a half. I think I was too scared to try to date anyone else. I thought there was something terribly wrong with me, so I should be grateful there was someone who wanted me and I settled for it.We weren't always the safest when it came to sex, especially when I was first diagnosed. I'm pretty sure we stupidly did it while I was having my first outbreak. So although I started taking the antivirals to decrease viral shedding and prevent transmission, he did end up getting it a few months later. Herpes is confusing. For some people, it can take a few months after being infected to pop up. Some people are asymptomatic, and they go their whole life without ever having symptoms. We don’t know what levels of the virus make it possible to transmit and what’s safe—a blood test can tell if you have been exposed to the virus but not if you are actively shedding the virus on your skin, which is how it actually gets transmitted. From a doctor's point of view, it's not that big of a deal at all—it's a skin condition. There are a few exceptions: babies contracting it when they pass through the birth canal and complications in immunocompromised individuals. But for most people, the stigma is worse than the actual symptoms. Because of this, there is not as much research and understanding around this disease as there is around other more life-threatening diseases. This is, of course, understandable but still frustrating. There is no medication that I can take that will guarantee that I won’t transmit it, and there isn’t a medication that someone can take that will guarantee that they won’t contract it. And for this reason, it’s a deal-breaker for a lot of people. This is completely understandable; it probably would have been for me if I had been given the choice.

I’ve Had to Date Long Distance

Once my boyfriend and I broke up, I tried going on dating apps. I wanted to be upfront with people about it because I wasn’t given that luxury. I had some experiences with people becoming completely uninterested in me after I told them, which was really painful. I thought to myself, “They should have a dating site for people with this,” and so when I found one, it was a huge relief. I thought it might be a silver lining, that I could meet someone else who had it, and we could take this bad thing and make something good out of it. But because there weren’t as many people on that site, I ended up having to go outside of my area to find people who I liked. I ended up in a few long-distance relationships over the years, which was always difficult in its own way. But in each case, we both had given up on finding anyone in our cities, so we made the extra effort. It’s not just about having that initial conversation with the person. For me, since I was still having outbreaks and not tolerating the medication (it was giving me yeast infections), it was so much less stressful than dating someone who doesn’t have it. I would occasionally try Bumble and Hinge but would always go back to PositiveSingles. Even if I met someone who was OK with it, I often wasn't. The stress of maybe giving it to them was too great. At one point, I even remember resolving that I would never date someone who doesn’t have it. Maybe I just got unlucky, but I always seemed to find people who knew so little about herpes. I would end up having to educate them and could always feel their judgment coming through in the type of questions that they asked. It was hurtful, but I always thought about how I would have probably had a similar reaction and asked similar questions before I was diagnosed. People should be having these kinds of conversations before they get into bed, but it never seems to happen; I’m always the one who brings it up. A couple of times when I have, the guy has said that he has it too. On one hand, it’s a relief, but on the other hand, it’s a red flag because it was clear that he was not going to tell me.

Even if I met someone who was OK with it, I often wasn't.

I’m Open About My Status to Destigmatize Herpes

I had a patient with it and, one day, she asked me why I was dating someone so far away. I told her that I also have herpes and have had a hard time dating locally. She was basically like, “Bitch, please, everyone in L.A. has it,” and said being open about it with partners has never been an issue for her. Maybe I just felt more shame and angst over it, and the more you feel something like that, the more you attract that same energy. Once I started feeling more comfortable with it, I feel like I started having fewer outbreaks and attracting people who it wasn’t an issue for either.Right now, I'm actually dating someone who doesn't have it. Once I realized I liked him, I started taking the antivirals. I hadn’t had an outbreak in six months, so the first time we hooked up, I didn’t feel ready to tell him and I knew that everything we did was super safe. Because it’s transmitted by skin-to-skin friction, the location of the outbreaks is important, so I’ve learned what’s safe for me. I was scared that once I told him, he would become uninterested or treat me differently or ask a bunch of uncomfortable questions. He seemed surprised, but it didn’t change the way he felt about me. If anything, I feel like I was the one who started acting differently because of all my own insecurities and issues with it in the past. But now we’ve worked through all that. At this point, I feel like I've come a long way and processed a lot of the shame and guilt I had at first. Over the years, I have become more and more open about it with friends and family. At this point, everyone knows: My parents know, my sister and my brother-in-law and all of my friends know. When I share, I feel like I am helping myself process and heal and also doing my part to destigmatize it. This is why my biggest advice for anyone trying to date with herpes is to be open about it. I've met so many guys on the STD sites who have it and literally no one knows—not their family, not their friends, no one in their inner circle—so they're carrying it all by themselves and not knowing that people will love and accept them with it. Get your therapy and open up to your friends because you never know—they might have it too.

My avatar tapped its foot patiently. My date was late. Am I at the right place? Is this the right metaverse?I was a tall, handsome Black man—no shirt, printed three-quarter length spandex tights, desert boots, a cowboy hat and sunglasses, even though it was night. “How the fuck did I end up here?” I asked myself. I’m not a computer nerd; I don’t play video games. I don’t even watch that much TV. Yet there I was, on a virtual date in the Burning Man metaverse, aptly named “Multiverse.”Wind back the clock six months on Earth metaverse. At the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, I was single and alone in my Brooklyn apartment. I started talking to an old friend; we comforted each other through isolation with marathon six-hour FaceTime sessions. Something was kindling between us, but without the physical connection to gauge whether there was chemistry, it was just all talk. It was hard to tell if she was just bored and I was balls-deep in the friend zone. When restrictions started to loosen, she decided to stay in her home country, leaving the Pacific Ocean between us. I was desperate to know: Was this real? The difficult question with online dating is when and how do you make first contact? How do you escalate from digital banter to IRL?

In the most unromantic first kiss ever, we smashed our avatars together.

We Smashed Avatars Together for Our First Kiss

We are both softcore Burners. For me, the pandemic became real when Burning Man was canceled. If anyone could pull off a COVID-19 miracle, it was a bunch of wealthy, creative-obsessed Burning Man people stuck inside for six months. We talked excitedly about what they might create. And just weeks before Burning Man announced it was on, albeit virtually, I bit the bullet and asked her on a virtual date. “You mean like a date date?” she replied. “Yeah, like a date date.” “OK, sure, not like I’ll be doing anything better.” That sounds like friend zone chat, I thought to myself.If there was a credo for lockdown, it might as well be, “OK, sure, not like I’ll be doing anything better,” and during those times, going on a virtual date to Burning Man was a pretty exciting prospect. When she finally arrived, 30 minutes late due to a connection issue, her avatar looked hot as hell. We cruised around the virtual playa on our hoverboards. We stopped to admire virtual art; we interacted with other avatars; and we danced to our favorite DJs. Four hours passed like it was no time at all. At one point, we stumbled upon a piece of art in the deep playa. I hovered my avatar close to hers, heart racing and said, “So, um, this is the point in a date where I would usually ask to kiss you.”“Well, just do it,” she replied. In the most unromantic first kiss ever, we smashed our avatars together. And with the sexual frustration akin to watching porn with dial-up internet, I successfully made it to the virtual first base hurdle that can torment nice guys in the friend zone for years.

Eventually, It Will Be Hard to Distinguish the Real World From the Metaverse

Fast-forward 12 months Earth-time to 2021. Mark Zuckerberg presents a 77-minute keynote explaining that Facebook is now Meta. The summary of this presentation? Facebook is going all in on the metaverse. Why is this important? If you use Facebook, Instagram or WhatsApp (3.5 billion people do daily), you will be subtly drawn into the metaverse. At first, it will be slow, but before you know it, you’ll be participating in a virtual orgy at Burning Man from the comfort of your dust-free couch. Whether you like it or not, the metaverse is coming and you’ll be coming in the metaverse. We will be rendered choiceless but to create sexy avatars and join the fun. The thing about the metaverse which will be fundamentally different from planet Earth is that you will not be confined to your meat suit we call a body. You’ll be able to teleport anywhere you can imagine. You’ll be able to create worlds so vastly different to the one you were programmed into. You’ll work and play virtually. You will spend more of your waking life in the metaverse than on Earth. Think I’m exaggerating? Go look at your screen time on your phone. You’re already living in an early metaverse—just a really shit version. The whole Meta presentation sent me down a rabbit hole of thoughts. The people who say The Matrix is a documentary just added a little more ammunition to their argument. The world as we know it is colliding with virtual worlds at a quicker rate than ever. Metaverses are popping up all over the place, like Wilder World, built by artists and living on the blockchain. We will build millions of metaverses, and eventually, these worlds will become so lifelike, it will be hard to distinguish between the real and the meta. Which makes you think, are we in one right now? The odds that we are in the genesis metaverse are one in a million. But it sure feels real.Let’s imagine for a second (or at least for the rest of this article) that we are in a virtual world. You are the main player. The game is your life and you have one life. I’m here to tell you that what you experience is not really reality—it’s your reality, but it’s not the reality. In fact, no one knows the real reality because you are only as informed as to your point of view.When you and your friend both see the same thing, you might each experience it differently. If this world is virtual and your experiences are fundamentally different from the person next to you, what is truth?

It’s one big video game where no one gets out alive.

In the Metaverse, You Control Your Destiny

The truth is, there is no truth. No certainty. What one person sees, hears, tastes, touches or smells can be so vastly different to whatever you experience. So what’s the point of arguing? What’s the point of being right or wrong? Why can’t everyone be right?When you are born, your consciousness springs to life. Earth is your metaverse. As you develop, your world is shaped by your early experiences, your family and your environment. Into adolescence, you start to find your own way, you start to discover who you are, but your world is largely still defined by your early years. A lot of people never get out of that worldview, and they pass that view on to their children and the metaverse becomes more concrete. But here is the exciting part: It’s your metaverse and you can change it. You get to decide how you view your world.Once you start creating your own reality, you start attracting other people doing the same. Dreamers, doers, creatives and visionaries. There's a fair chance if you’re reading this right now, you are in the fine cohort of people taking control of your own universe and, ultimately, your own destiny. Who knows? The first time you kiss your future life partner might be on a virtual dusty date. It happened to my spandex-wearing avatar, and it can happen to you. Creating your own reality comes with caveats. Don’t hurt people; don’t be mean; and don’t be an asshole. But if you do choose that direction, know that you will attract other people just like you, and that’s a pretty shitty metaverse to hang out in.I admire people who choose their own way, people who are running their own race. The people who know there is no finish line are playing infinite games, which we can all win and everyone can be right. We don’t need to be the way we are formed or conform to the environment we were brought up in. It’s one big video game where no one gets out alive. Enjoy the ride and be nice to people on the internet and IRL.

I hated reading as a child. It was long, boring and often didn’t make any sense. My parents worried about my slow development, especially when compared to my math skills, in which I excelled. The first time I truly enjoyed reading was in high school.

I can’t help but notice how she changed everything for me.

My Friend Instilled in Me a Love of Literature

My freshman year, I made a close friend: Charlie. I can’t remember exactly when we met, but I know it must have been in those awkward few days of orientation, when everyone was shy and no one knew what to do. We were two of the 48 girls spread throughout our Catholic school’s mansion lobby. But Charlie and I found each other in that inconceivable world of San Francisco private schools, drawn together by a mutual awkwardness of puberty and new experiences.Charlie loved books. She read everything. A trip to a bookstore was an exciting outing for her. Through months of effort, she finally forced me to read a book. It was The Hunger Games. The first of the movies was due to come out in a few months. Movies got me excited enough to actually read, so I reluctantly borrowed Charlie’s copy of the first book in the series. And it turned out that I liked it. I finished it overnight and, later that week, she gave me the sequel.She was kind and smart. We spent weekends watching movies or staying up until 1 a.m. watching J-pop music videos before falling asleep on her couch. She stood a few inches taller than me, with blonde hair and skin so pale, she sometimes wore sunscreen on cloudy days. On weekends, we had sleepovers where we would watch movies and talk about the indie bands we were listening to (back then, Ed Sheeran was still an unknown artist who would sometimes play free concerts in Golden Gate Park). After school, Charlie and I would often take trips to bookstores, either ones near school or near her house. Sometimes, we would each buy a book, read it, then switch. We’d always go to the teen fiction section in the back left corner of the bookstore on West Portal. After seeing the trailer for the movie adaptation of The Perks of Being a Wallflower, we both read the book, and it later became something I read three or four times through the course of high school.Soon, I learned I didn’t just read because of Charlie; I genuinely enjoyed it. I’d often walk to class with a book in my hand. I read all the trending teen fiction of the time, like The Fault in Our Stars and Divergent, along with some higher fiction. Frankenstein became one of my favorite books and still is to this day. I read The Goldfinch upon recommendation from Charlie’s mom, and it instilled in me an avid love for Donna Tart. English class became my domain; I would fiercely argue with anyone who contradicted me and was outspoken in every lecture.

I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but girls are very pretty and they smell good.

Were It Not for Charlie, I Would’ve Been a Completely Different Person

When it came time to apply to college, I decided to pursue English literature. At 17, I, like so many other teenagers, didn’t know what I wanted to do with my life, but I knew I loved reading and writing.Once off to college, Charlie and I quickly lost touch. Our relationship had already begun to wane in our final year of high school. We rarely took trips to the bookstore or stayed up all night talking. The distance of college merely solidified the growing chasm between us.I spent my days working in the library and reading the classics. College also helped me come to terms with my sexuality as a queer person. I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but girls are very pretty and they smell good. For years, I told myself that’s a universal truth that everyone agrees with. At a certain point, I looked around and all of my friends were queer, I sought out queer undertones in books, and I thought, “Maybe this is a sign.” What really did me in was going to see a lesbian comedian one night and spending the whole time thinking, “Do I want to have sex with women?” And when you’re asking yourself that question, the answer is almost always “yes.” I also realized I used to love Charlie. My impressionable teenage brain would have done anything she asked me. Read a book? Sure. Help each other with homework? Always. Sneak out? No—because we were both nerds who didn’t get invited to parties, but I would have done it in other circumstances. I started reading because she wanted me to start reading, and I loved it because she loved it. Even now in my New York apartment with my M.A. in journalism and a stack of thousand-page novels in my office, knowing I haven’t spoken to Charlie in years, I can’t help but notice how she changed everything for me. Without her, I wouldn’t have studied English literature or met some of my closest friends or gone to grad school. I’m one of the few people I know who has a career path that I actually love, and it's all because I had a crush on her so many years ago. She gave me direction for my life. Without Charlie, I wouldn’t be a writer.

I work for an American conservative cable news company. I'm one of those faceless, shadowy figures you think of when you hear the term "right-wing media." And we're just as awful as you think we are. We sit around all day in suits, coming up with ways to convince you that anti-American, liberal, pink-haired, gay, trans Democrats are dismantling our society.OK, I’m being a little hyperbolic.The truth is far more mundane. There's no long boardroom where suits craft a specific agenda. Well, we do have the big morning meeting to go over how the network will cover the events of the day. But you very rarely get instructions as explicit as, "Write this and not that." Instead, cable news is mostly a practice of self-censorship.

Our Network’s Goal Is to Preach a Conservative Worldview, Not to Inform Viewers

Almost everyone knows the agenda: Biden bad, Trump good. That’s it. That’s the framework in which every issue is presented. What are the problems in our country right now? The aim is to link everything—from the rising inflation to the uptick in urban crime—directly to President Biden or the policies passed by Democrats. The only time the Democrats have merit is when one criticizes their own party. That’s usually the exclamation point of a host’s rant or monologue. Check out moderate Joe Manchin. Even he, a Democrat, is calling out the radical left-wing members of his party for attempting to destroy our country’s economy with Biden’s crazy Build Back Better plan. Everything else Joe Manchin stands for is awful, except when he’s siding with Republicans. Right.Cable news is mostly a game of semantics and word association—it’s designed to push the network’s narrative. For example, January 6 was the “Capitol riot,” which was made up of mostly “peaceful patriots” rather than “insurrectionists directed by President Trump.” Meanwhile, those who participated in the 2020 Black Lives Matter marches were “rioters,” not “protesters.”It’s about pushing back against the narrative being portrayed by the liberal news media—because what’s being reported on liberal networks is also a narrative designed to obfuscate the truth. We’re just providing a counterargument to most other media outlets, which overwhelmingly lean liberal. Everything is framed through this political framework. The goal is to prove the people wearing blue ties wrong; informing the public or providing key context is a secondary priority at best.

Almost everyone knows the agenda: Biden bad, Trump good. That’s it.

You Don’t Have to be a Republican to Work Here

Almost every person in the office knows the narrative we’re trying to bring to the audience, so there are very few verbal political arguments. Instead, most check their opinions at the door and write scripts in line with the network’s agenda. Which is to say, there are no political purity tests. I don't identify as liberal or conservative. I think that question is a false choice, the kind they told you to avoid in freshman year philosophy or journalism class. But if you’re not rowing in the same direction as everyone else here, there are several filtering processes that take place. Supervisors and talent rewrite your work. And if the problem persists, some folks get a chat about their writing style. If that still isn’t enough of a hint, employees get reassigned to a shift that’s better suited for less pointed writing. But I’ve never seen punitive action for someone’s political views.Having written in both liberal and conservative newsrooms, my experience has been that both factories produce the same kind of yogurt. One is strawberry flavored; the other is blueberry flavored. The liberal channels are just as guilty of what I just outlined above. Republican governors have blood on their hands for having lax COVID restrictions (even though Democratic governors forced nursing homes to take back COVID patients). Donald Trump is the head of a domestic terrorist movement. Questioning the efficacy of COVID vaccines is the same as being an anti-vaxxer. Sometimes, after an hour or two of writing at my desk, I look up at the bank of TV monitors to see what the mainstream news is doing. And I’m always amazed to see those networks try to claim the moral high ground. They claim that Trump demonized journalists but refuse to acknowledge when Biden does the same thing to reporters who are critical of him. So it goes.

I Spend Hours Looking for the Country’s Worst Crimes

Cable news is mostly a cheap drama. Its aim is to elicit emotions that keep people coming back for more, and the top two emotions we prey on are fear and anger. That's what rates—that's what people watch. No matter the politics of your preferred cable news network, America is constantly in crisis. Twenty-four hours a day. In case you missed the latest threat to democracy at 7 p.m., we have it for you again at 8 p.m., and in case you miss that, be sure to catch us at 11 p.m.We want to highlight the damage and destruction. We show the worst 30-second loops of a police station being burned to the ground in Minneapolis—just as liberal stations show the worst 30 seconds of Trump supporters hitting police and breaking windows at the Capitol. We look for any reason to show you those violent videos. Sometimes, I spend hours looking for the worst crimes in the country. Innocent Americans being robbed at gunpoint and storefronts being smashed with eager looters making off with their haul. Take a look at what’s happening in our country. This could be you! This could be your store next!We combine those frightening images with our narrative. For example, we want to show you George Floyd’s wild and erratic behavior during his arrest. What if you were that police officer? How would you get control of that out-of-control criminal? No one in their right mind would have acted like George Floyd! We’re not explicitly saying that he deserved to die. We're simply implying that there's more to this story than the liberal media is telling you.While Floyd’s death served as a flashpoint for simmering anger over police brutality and racial inequality, we want you to conclude that that anger is misplaced because of Floyd’s actions and criminal history. If George Floyd didn’t resist arrest, then he would never have been restrained on the ground by a police officer. We’re effectively a mouthpiece for the defense of officer Derek Chauvin—we want to push his argument that the drugs in Floyd’s system contributed to his death. If Floyd didn’t have fentanyl and amphetamines in his system, Chauvin’s restraint wouldn’t have been deadly. What we don't show you, of course, is the eight minutes of Chauvin’s knee on Floyd’s neck. Or the times when Floyd told the officer he was about to die. We leave that part out because anything that humanizes Floyd doesn’t serve our narrative.

The top two emotions we prey on are fear and anger.

Nobody Wants to Understand the Experience of Their Political Opponents

What do we do well? We excel at pointing out the flaws in liberal theories, despite the glaring gaps in our own. We make sure you know that Supreme Court Justice Sonia Sotomayor made false claims that “over 100,000” children are in “serious condition” with COVID, when the number is closer to 5,000. It's the same thing liberal stations do well. People love to hate hypocrites, and the ratings bear that out.Behind the scenes, I feel that none of what I’ve just described is being done out of malice. Some of my colleagues are my good friends. We’re your neighbors, and our kids go to the same schools. I'm convinced that most of my colleagues want what’s best for America. When I talk with them off the record, however, many believe in the narrative that we paint on the network. Whenever I ask them to view things from the other side, they can’t get past our GOP talking points. I think the reason for that is threefold. We can’t seem to establish the same set of facts to begin our debates; there’s a general unwillingness to try and understand the experiences of people from other political groups; and everyone believes that their experience is simultaneously being invalidated.Meanwhile, the cable news work environment isn’t so much toxic as it is grinding. It’s about finding the worst in people and showing it to the rest of the world on a daily basis. On top of that, deadlines are tight, complicated even more by different departments that are never on the same page. There are layers of bureaucracy for what should be simple tasks. Tempers are generally short and hours are long, all of which lead to sporadic shouting matches. Abrupt resignations and what millennials and Gen-Zers call “rage quits” aren’t uncommon, but most of it isn’t truly mean-spirited. Like most industries across America, cable news is asking its employees to do more with less, maintain the veneer and polish it with fewer resources and staff. But despite the pressure cooker, I’ve met great mentors and great people behind the camera. Maybe I would feel like this would all be worth it if cable news writ large were helping solve all of these crises we show our audience every day.

I knew even before I wrote it that the article was going to cause trouble. When I pitched my editor at a very well-known global culture-and-lifestyle magazine about covering the very young and very zealous fandom of a popular British boy band, one of the first things out of her mouth was, “You know they’re going to come for you, right?”I knew she was right. It was 2012, right around the time social media stopped being a digital novelty and started figuring out what it was good for—things like connecting global pop-culture fanbases and organizing them into hate mobs to go after anyone who they saw as attacking their favorite boy band/movie franchise/video game. It was the dawn of the stans. I’d seen them coming for other critic friends. I supposed this might be my time.

There were more than a few death threats.

What It’s Like to Have Twitter Gang Up on You

My article went live in the morning, and at first, the response was fairly mellow. The only negative feedback in the comments came from snobby music nerds accusing us of stooping to cover boy bands just for the clicks. I’m very sympathetic toward overly passionate music fans, especially teen girls, who historically have taken a lot of undeserved shit for liking music that middle-aged men don’t consider worth taking seriously. I hoped that came through in my writing. Maybe the fans reading the piece were picking up on it, I thought. By lunchtime, it seemed like my worst fears were overblown.Then, somewhere out in the digital wilds, the right fan with the right Twitter following found the article and didn’t like what they read. The replies started rolling in, hundreds of them, the notifications on my phone blurring together into a steady buzzing that I had to silence because it was driving me nuts. None of them were nice. Over the course of the afternoon, I was called every bad thing a 12-to-14-year-old girl could think of to call someone, dozens of times over. There were more than a few death threats. Years of being a critic—and all of the mean comments I’d received on articles at the much smaller paper I’d been writing for prior—had taught me to have a thick skin, and at first, it was easy to brush the insults off. But after you’ve been called an ugly, talentless bitch a few dozen times, it’s hard not to feel a little hurt.And then it stopped, as suddenly as it started. I never heard another word from them.

It’s Not Just Boy Band Stans

Being a critic has always meant being criticized back. People are passionate about the art they love and often very quick to defend it against perceived slights. Artists—aside from a small minority who are too self-actualized or successful to care—are even more sensitive. (If you write honestly enough and for big enough publications, you will eventually make an artist you admire personally hate you, which is a weird marker of success in the crit world.) Critics, like lawyers, have long been seen as cultural parasites who exist only to tear down people with “real” talents. Before the internet, living with that knowledge, plus hate mail from anyone you pissed off enough for them to write a letter, was just the cost of being a critic. Since then, things have gotten a lot more intense. Comments sections let people say the worst things they can imagine to call someone, anonymously and at no cost. Social media made it easy to organize the mass harassment of people whom you don’t agree with. With so much of our lives online now, a motivated fan can easily piece together where you live, who you know and what your biggest vulnerabilities are. Writing criticism sometimes feels like legitimately dangerous work these days. Since the boy band incident, I’ve had a number of notably toxic interactions with people online over my opinions. I reviewed a budding pop singer’s album for a widely read music website and said I thought some of the songs were decent, but overall, the project didn’t live up to the lead single (which I emphasized in the review that I really loved). The singer personally organized a Twitter mob that struck while I was in the middle of an already incredibly stressful destination wedding I’d been dragged to by my partner at the time. A decade ago, I wrote a critical essay about a very big jam band for a very big men’s magazine—basically saying I gave their music an open-minded shot and couldn’t get into it, but if they float your boat, good for you—and I still get remarkably vicious hate emails from it. (Don’t ever let hippies fool you into thinking they’re actually as mellow as they claim.) When I wrote a blog post for a big supermarket-checkout-lane entertainment magazine criticizing a certain pop icon for co-opting the images of dead civil rights icons for her album marketing materials, a superfan left a series of long, disturbingly detailed comments underneath the post about myself, my partner and my cat—and accused me of being a pedophile. These are just the more extreme examples that stand out against the steady hum of low-level abuse that I’ve absorbed over the years. I’ve been called every insult in the book, had people invade online spaces that I thought were safe and been told to kill myself so many times that it’s stopped being shocking. My skin is much thicker than it used to be, but I’m also more cynical, as much as I hate to admit it.

Writing criticism sometimes feels like legitimately dangerous work these days.

Why Is Criticism Worth It?

Writing about music or movies or TV or video games now means accepting that you will be on the receiving end of the worst that people can dish out online, from insults to death threats to doxxing, and that the better you do at your job, the worse you’ll get it. If you make a big enough splash—like critic Anita Sarkeesian, whose work criticizing sexist tropes in video games launched an army of revenge-seeking fanboys—the threat of violence can bleed over into real life. Between that, the elimination of staff writer positions at publications and cratering rates for freelancers, a lot of good critics are dropping out of the game entirely, and young, pop-culture-literate minds are taking jobs in safer, more secure industries like marketing.A lot of people would say that’s no big loss. But good criticism doesn’t just point out good art or admonish the bad (although in our age of oversaturation, that help can be incredibly valuable); it also holds a mirror up to the society that art springs from and helps us untangle our mass subconscious the way a therapist can show us behaviors we don’t even realize we have. Good criticism doesn’t exist in opposition to art; it uplifts it, makes it stronger, helps us to engage with it more deeply. Good critics love art and artists and other people who feel just as passionately about it as we do. That’s what keeps us writing, even through the abuse.

Right before the pandemic hit, not quite fresh out of a relationship, I joined a handful of dating apps for the first time. It took me multiple days to assemble my first profiles, which my friend W told me were terrible because there were too many photos of trees and not enough of my face. It gave me so much anxiety to swipe or receive a match notification that I began to hide my phone in places where the cat might lay on top of it. After a few months, I deleted the apps from my phone, vowing to never online date again. Despite my friends' apparent successes, I resigned myself to the narrow odds of the "real world." COVID arrived in New York City in full force in early 2020, and I began teaching online full-time from my bedroom in Brooklyn, which was the size of a closet and next to a major highway; neither of these factors had previously bothered me because, like most New Yorkers, I was never home. Suddenly, the exasperating noise and the fact that my entire room was a bed began getting to me. My cats thought that they needed to be fed a dozen times a day because my consistent presence in the kitchen confused them. I decided that since I was a writer, I could theoretically take this time to become a well-read person and distract myself from my physical surroundings.

It brought me joy that I hadn't felt in over a year.

One Account I Followed Piqued My Interest

I began asking friends for their favorite journal titles, eager to stumble upon new poems, short prose pieces and artwork. A handful of recommendations floated my way, and I ended up browsing a few websites and following their publishers on Instagram, some of whom were friends of friends. I ordered one that I particularly loved the look of—minimal with photographs of open landscapes and trees, what I wished my dating profile had been before I was warned to change it. The journal had the look of someone’s hands on it—quite the opposite of an Instagram account, where it’s impossible to feel someone’s physical limbs or their tears. In one post, the journal was thrown into the ocean. I learned it was hand printed and bound in a garage, its colors mirroring the dirt on the ground underneath. Because of this, each one looked slightly different, and more alive than a filtered post.After exchanging a brief series of DMs to order a copy, the publisher and I periodically commented on each other's stories—a poem here and there, sewing, things sitting on each other's tables. My interest in their life—1,700 miles away and very much not in New York—began to pique. One evening a few months later, finally out of Brooklyn and sitting in my mother's living room in the mountains, surrounded by tall pines and open alpine meadows, I realized I was now routinely messaging this person about what kind of pizza and wine I was eating for dinner. I had a crush on them, even though I had never met them and they had no photos of themselves on their Instagram account. I wondered if I was losing it. The conversations escalated into daily exchanges while I was away from the city.

I Fell In Love With Someone I Never Met

I gave them my actual phone number, and my address for mail, which in hindsight seems like a good thing to do if you want your identity stolen. Soon we began sending each other long, handwritten notes in the mail. I was having fun. I loved walking down to the mailbox and seeing their return address. It brought me joy that I hadn't felt in over a year. By the time I returned to my Brooklyn apartment, I knew I couldn't stay there. Conditions in the city weren't easing up, and I knew whatever kind of joy I had touched upon again—from some bizarre combination of reading this person's journal, our handwritten correspondence and simply being physically in a more remote area—would begin to drift away if I stayed in New York. I texted all my friends that I was leaving. I also told them that I thought I was in love with a person I had never met. I knew the phenomenon of "Instagram as-dating-app" was not a new one. I also knew plenty of people who had had Instagram crushes who ended up meeting in person at some point. However, I didn't know anyone who counted a series of DMs and photographs of trees as one of their initial inspirations for moving halfway across the country. I never personally thought that I would meet and date someone via an app, let alone a social media app. I had lived in New York for well over a decade, and had sworn and re-sworn my undying allegiance to its museums, parks and, most importantly, my real-life social connections. My friends asked me when I'd be back so they could put the date in their calendar. I told them I didn't have one. I chose to move to a place not exactly where my new crush was living, but I thought, you know, close enough something could happen. When you live in New York long enough, the concept of geography and physics begin to deteriorate, and you think that you can take the F train between states.

My partner and I occasionally joke about the superficiality of social media, but it always comes back to a single fact: That’s how we met.

Finding Love on Instagram Made Me Rethink Social Media

I asked my virtual pen pal if they'd "help me move in," failing to realize that I was actually living 12 hours away from them by car. When they agreed, I checked my phone every hour, wondering which gas station in what small town they might be in now. I was so nervous imagining them driving I couldn’t think, so I was serenely calm. When they showed up on my doorstep, I knew they were a keeper. Flash forward a year later, and I now live a 12-hour drive closer—with them, in their apartment. Their temporary housewarming visit turned into a cohabiting that, quite frankly, never ended. I couldn’t believe I was so compatible in a daily way with someone I met online.It feels hard to believe that two years earlier I was living in Brooklyn, in what feels to be a completely different lifetime from now, in quarantine scrolling through Instagram, imagining my body somewhere else. My partner and I occasionally joke about the superficiality of social media, but it always comes back to a single fact: That’s how we met. The experience has taught me that all forms of communication have their merit, with a potential for connection. It’s meeting the right person, and what happens in all the spaces when you’re not logged on.

I became a full-time freelance journalist in 2021, having graduated with my master’s degree in journalism the year before. I had gotten a content writing job right after graduating, but it wasn’t working. The job had a lot of faults, but I specifically couldn’t contend with the poor work culture, in addition to not being able to write pieces that I was proud of or enjoyed. I wanted to go into journalism to make a difference and write pieces that I myself would want to read, but I wasn’t able to do that there, so I left. I got a job in a pub for a while to pay the bills and slowly began to build my freelance career, with help from many freelancers I had become friends with over social media during the pandemic. It’s been nearly a year since I went freelance full-time, doing shift work where I would write 300-word pieces and pitching out reported pieces or personal essays to be published online. I would consider myself successful. I’m making enough money each month to cover my rent and bills, save a small amount and have extra to buy coffee, go to the theater and even to book a holiday for later this year. I work five or six days a week and have my evenings free. All of these jobs are remote, so I get to sit in my living room, listening to music or playing Kitchen Nightmares in the background while I write. For many people, I am living the dream, and in my moments of self-doubt, my friends and therapist remind me that I am doing very well—considering the many systemic issues in society and the effect of the pandemic, in addition to the specific difficulty of “making it” in the journalism industry.

Even though it sounds like everything is fine, I am not.

I May Look Like I’ve Got It Figured Out, but I Don’t

Even though it sounds like everything is fine, I am not. It’s only been a year, and I’m already burning out from the hustle and the constant pressure to produce content and compete with my fellow journalists. Dealing with the comparison on social media is very demoralizing, and the addition of constant lockdowns and restrictions due to COVID-19, plus seeing the news of racism and homophobia across the world as a bisexual woman of color, is burning me out. It feels more impossible than ever to make it in the industry, even if it seems from the outside that I’ve already made it. The pandemic has made the already precarious and difficult industry even harder. More and more experienced journalists are going freelance amid layoffs and media companies slashing staff jobs. The freelance market is now oversaturated with writers of all ages and experience, but especially young people who spent thousands on a journalism degree or training and can’t find a job when they emerge into the world of work. The only way to get published is to go freelance, either as a supplement to a day job so you can build your portfolio and hopefully get a job in the future, or to go freelance full-time and work as hard as you can to make a life for yourself. Despite many people advocating for “working for yourself” and not submitting to a boss or a CEO or a massive conglomerate, going freelance full-time while still living a somewhat sustainable and normal life is very hard. Freelance rates in the U.K. are notoriously low in comparison to the U.S., especially for smaller, independent publications that are either politically independent or left-wing. Right-wing publications like the Daily Mail and The Sun have jobs on offer regularly and pretty substantial rates, but my politics are left-leaning and I refuse to work for certain publications, so I have to do twice as much work to make the same amount as others who’ll write for them.It’s also so hard to see others who are my age, or even younger, constantly producing and publishing pieces online, finding the time and creative energy to come up with great ideas and write these wonderful pieces for a range of exciting publications. I hate to admit that I am envious of them, but I am. While I’m happy for my peers—and happy to promote their work—I often question how they are able to get out so many pieces in a week, when I feel like I can barely manage one in addition to doing household chores, seeing friends, spending time with my partner, reading a book or even just watching Netflix.

The Media Industry Is Set Up to Burn Us Out

There is also this common, and possibly true, perception in freelancing that because there are so many freelancers out there, you have to accept every assignment and every shift that comes your way, and you have to go above and beyond for every piece, even if it’s only paying £40, or else you won’t get any work in the future from that editor or their fellow editor friends. This is not an entirely unfounded fear. The media industry is small, and there are many people who are in exactly the same position as me who might have similar skills and ideas. We need editors more than they need us, which creates an inherent power imbalance. I’m always afraid that I will lose a regular shift or that I won’t get a pitch commissioned for several months, which would seriously eat into my income and savings. The financial anxiety over not being able to pay my rent or bills and letting my partner down is crippling. Burnout has become a popular topic of discussion in recent years, usually pertaining to people in their late 20s and older, who’ve been in a particular career for years. Burnout was classified by the World Health Organization in 2019 as a syndrome “resulting from chronic workplace stress that has not been successfully managed,” and states that the symptoms are “feelings of energy depletion or exhaustion, increased mental distance from one’s job or feelings of negativism or cynicism related to one’s job and reduced professional efficacy.” As Anne Helen Petersen writes for BuzzFeed, burnout was previously considered to be something that people in “acutely high-stress environments” suffer from, something “that could be treated with a week on the beach.” Her piece focuses primarily on millennials, people who entered the job market during the 2008 financial crisis and have dealt with years and years of stagnant wages, austerity and rising costs of living. I don’t fit into these categories. I’m only 23, and I’ve only been doing this for a year, and I’m burned out too. I am constantly and consistently exhausted, both physically and emotionally, by this rat race to simply live a normal life while doing my chosen career. Having enough money and time to spend my evenings and weekends with the people I love and doing fun things is only getting harder. I’m starting to wonder if staying within journalism is really worth it—and I’m not the only one.Other people in their early 20s and new to their careers are also experiencing burnout and also wondering if they might be happier and more content elsewhere. This is being amplified by the lack of jobs, poor salaries in the jobs that are available, low freelance rates and the expectation of writing 30 articles a week and a book by the time we’re 25. This is leaving us too emotionally and physically drained to even grab a drink with a friend or read a good book in the bath. We are expected to accept this, and we are told that's just the way the media industry is, but it shouldn't be. Many of us are leaving the journalism industry entirely to pursue other better-paying jobs in the marketing, digital and charity sectors because journalism is untenable for our mental health. If this is what it's like just one year out of university, what will the rest of our lives look like?

I wouldn’t count on me staying in journalism for long.

What’s Going to Happen to Media When All the Young Journalists Quit?

Journalism as an industry needs a complete overhaul, particularly in regard to freelancers from marginalized backgrounds, who are finding all of this even harder. Many young journalists of color are unable to get published until they agree to write a personal essay about their trauma. But more than that, the world of work needs a complete overhaul. The constant pressure to succeed and regularly produce excellent work isn’t working for any of us. This is part of what’s driving the so-called “Great Resignation;” we’re trying to set better boundaries and stop letting late capitalism take advantage of us. However, none of this is going to happen overnight, and there is no short-term cure for burnout. As a result, we are going to lose many excellent journalists who just can’t stand the conditions they’re expected to work in. I can’t take it anymore either. I’m still writing—as demonstrated by this essay—but I wouldn’t count on me staying in journalism for long. Journalists play an important role in our society, and young, early-career journalists have unique perspectives to offer, but we’re unable to get them out there without sacrificing time, money, energy and our self-worth to do so. The effect of continued burnout among young journalists, made more acute by the industry’s lack of financial and emotional support, will be pronounced. I’m sure some people will say that we just need to work harder, put our heads down and deal with the poor standards until we get to a point where we’re in charge, but that’s not sustainable or healthy. If we continue to treat young journalists so poorly, pushing them to this breaking point, we will lose countless amazing ideas and views. We have to ask ourselves, if this burnout continues to push talented young people out of journalism, what will the future of journalism look like? I believe it would ensure a homogenized group of journalists, mainly white and middle-class, the people who can afford to deal with the crap journalists are put through, and therefore would not be representative of large swathes of the population—currently in the U.K., at least 94 percent of the industry is white and 55 percent male. It would also mean fewer creative stories and ideas being presented to us, and eventually, younger audiences will no longer rely on mainstream publications because they’re not engaging enough. As technologies develop, we need younger people in every industry to keep up-to-date with trends and popular formats, such as TikTok, to engage their peers. We won’t be able to do that if young journalists quit because they simply can’t take it anymore.

Neighbor against neighbor. Friend against friend. Mother against daughter. Civil war? No—or, at least, not yet. Just my social media feed.It’s rife with arguments. I suppose this has been true in other years, but today it's so much worse. The coronavirus pandemic and the cries of racial injustice have sparked an unquenchable fire online and offline in my world. What used to be mindless scrolling through Facebook to pass the time is now hardly even possible for me because every other post is emotionally or politically charged, or both.Peaceful posts, or even those good old annoying posts (“Here are one million pictures of my child’s lost tooth!”), have vanished from my newsfeed. Instead, I see rather innocent posts that are quickly preyed upon by people looking to pick a fight or push their agenda with no thought in their heads that they might not be the only person who is “right” or with an opinion that counts.

My Social Media Post Was Misconstrued and Attacked

I myself ventured into this chaotic, toxic fray during the riots following George Floyd’s death.That was an experience. After one too many nights watching cities and businesses literally burn, I decided it wasn’t worth staying silent any longer. I debated and I typed, and I deleted and I re-typed. I repeated that cycle over and over so many times that I lost count. What I finally decided on was simple and to the point—or so I thought. “There’s a lot I don’t know. But the mass violence and crimes happening? Not acceptable.”Now, granted, after posting that, I should have seen how vague it was and how easily it could be misconstrued to mean that I didn’t care about the death of George Floyd. As they say, hindsight is 20/20. People immediately descended upon my post to assume lots of things about me and my beliefs. Most of the comments were surprisingly tame and, I believe, came from people who really wanted me to understand why they thought I was wrong.The problem was the commenters telling me I was wrong, who seemingly weren’t able to grasp the fact that more than one person could technically be “right.” Or that their opinion wasn’t the only one that could or should be heard. I’m not one for confrontation; I avoid it as often as I can and at pretty steep costs. At the first sign of a comment that didn’t agree with me and started to hint at an argument, my fingers itched to delete the entire thing. But I didn’t.

After a couple of days ticked by, the shaming got to me.

I Apologized for My Inflammatory Post, but Nobody Cared

As the comments came in about white privilege (yes, I’m classifying the idea of “white privilege” as an opinion), my heart beat wildly and I shook. I became hot, then cold, then hot again, and I replied to the comments as they came in. I labored over responding quickly while keeping my emotions in check and recognizing that the person posting was as equally entitled to their own opinion.After a couple of days ticked by, the shaming got to me. Again, I wanted to delete the entire post and pretend it never happened. Only, it did happen. And countless people had already viewed it. I realized that my post, made in anger and in frustration for being silent for so long, didn’t contribute anything helpful or productive to the world or the conversations about the rioting in Minneapolis. I can see now that it was—or could have been perceived as—rather inflammatory. It was me, hiding behind my phone, shouting out my anger at people who also (I hope) had no part in the rioting and the crimes. In the days after, I was shaken to the core about that post. I apologized in the comments that it wasn’t helpful and that I was choosing to leave it up because deleting it would solve nothing. Yes, I felt brave and perhaps just a bit noble. But I do believe that admitting to doing something wrong—or to something that unintentionally hurt people—shows some character.Of course, I didn’t apologize for having my opinion. I still hold that opinion and vehemently so. The way I voiced it may have been a poor choice, but my opinion is still completely and totally valid. More than ever, I hold tight to that opinion as I witness increasing violence and destruction and society practically coming apart at the seams.

I’ve decided I don’t have a thick enough skin to keep voicing my opinion.

There Is Too Much Hypocrisy on Social Media

Some of my friends on social media haven’t been as fortunate with their own posts. Oftentimes, a fairly innocent post—unrelated to George Floyd’s murder, police brutality or racism in general—can trigger a whole slew of fiery, holier-than-thou opinions chock-full of insults and self-righteous indignation. The hypocrisy is the worst part of this. The same people calling others self-righteous and condescending are also posting numerous comments full of that same self-righteousness and condescension they so quickly call out in myself and others. I also started to pay attention to the people who don’t ever actually comment on social media but just like or react to others’ comments. Their reactions have spoken volumes, finding a way to support or reject someone else’s opinion without stating their own. I’ve decided I don’t have a thick enough skin to keep voicing my opinion. Still, I sometimes scroll through Facebook and I read biting, hurtful comments from people I once considered good friends with good hearts. Their comments proclaim we should include everyone and be understanding of others’ differences, yet they clearly don’t apply this logic to anyone who dares to think differently than they do. I often have to remind myself that I should not unfriend someone just because their viewpoints differ greatly from mine. It’s not healthy for me—for anyone—to live in a vacuum where only like-minded people and ideas exist. But what do I do with the people who cannot tolerate my opinions and beliefs? The ones that proclaim the loudest that I need to tolerate and embrace differences but can’t or won’t do the embracing and the tolerating that they claim needs to be done? Am I perfect? Hell no. And neither is anyone else. Because we’re all humans. But I wonder what happened to productive discussion. What happened to disagreeing in a way that wasn’t insulting or hypocritical? I don’t have the answers. I also don’t believe that any one person will have the answers. We can do better than this. We must do better than this. If we can’t? Well, I, for one, don’t want to find out.