Extra, extra, read all about it! The news-media industry has shifted dramatically over the last decade—heck, within the last two years. Between print journalism, podcasting, social media and infotainment, The Doe turns over every rock in this evolving ecosystem.

Extra, extra, read all about it! The news-media industry has shifted dramatically over the last decade—heck, within the last two years.

Front Page - Anonymous Media Narratives From the Doe

Media

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.

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.

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 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.

I Survived a Boy Band Twitter Mob

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.

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. 

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 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.

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.

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 Work at a Conservative Cable Network: It’s Destructive—But Not Because It’s Conservative

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. 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. 

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?

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.

I’ve Been a Full-Time Journalist for Just a Year: I’m Already Burned Out

Drugs & Alcohol

Up, up and away! Time to get out of the house with The Doe.

Travel

Stories that can only be told from the land of the free, home of the brave.

American Stories

LGBTQ Voices

Motherhood

Earth Day or any day, let's celebrate our planet. 

Mother Earth

Tearjerkers

The Doe celebrates its authors this Black History Month.

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Stories of starting over and finding the fresh.

New Beginnings

The ol' nine to five has changed quite a bit in the past couple of years, from working remotely to, well, not working at all. This month we take a look at how cash still does rule in our capitalist society and what the future of business and money might just look like.

Money

Lord help us: They say it's not polite to talk about religion or politics, but—hey—we've already talked politics, haven't we? Prayer's up.

Religion

As a journalist and as a social activist, I am passionate about the power of words and language in our lives. Especially when it comes to discussions surrounding marginalization and discrimination, little words can have a big impact.

I believe that journalists, including myself, owe readers deliberate word choices that clearly define a point. The language we use has the potential to have repercussions in our society, and with so many words to choose from, we must choose right.

Consider how language has evolved to be more inclusive of women in the workforce—terms such as fireman, policeman and councilman have evolved to firefighter, police officer and councilor. As we progress, and collectively become more informed, our word choices shift to reflect the state of our world. With more information on diverse gender identities, language dynamics are becoming more inclusive and less gender-oriented. We move forward, and we take language with us.

But a growing distaste for political correctness leaves many reminiscing about the good old days when word choices didn’t seem to matter. However, for those who bear the brunt of society’s anxieties and prejudices, they always have.

Now certain words have begun to stand out. It’s easier than ever to identify the sexism, racism, homophobia and transphobia in simple word choices. And in such a polarized world, words aren’t just words anymore: they are sentiments, positions and movements. 

Recently, I was having a conversation with a friend who told me he did not support the trans community, but he also wasn’t against them. Neither of us identifies with the group, but it seemed it was fairly easy for him to maintain such a distance that he never felt pressured to take a stance. However, I have many trans individuals who have been close to me over the years and have enabled me to see the kind of bigotry and danger they face. Objectively, trans individuals are subjected to hardships that cis people are not, and to hold a neutral stance is to accept the social climate toward them. 

To give an extreme example, if you were to see a young man physically abusing an elderly lady on the sidewalk one day, remaining neutral would mean taking the side of the man. By doing nothing, you allow him to keep his power, and you accept the harm from these actions. It is not every day that you see this man, but it is every day that society systematically abuses its marginalized groups. And once again, remaining neutral is accepting this power dynamic and its consequences.

One of the more shocking events in Canadian news history was the discovery of thousands of unmarked graves at the institutions many Indigenous children were taken against their will when European colonizers arrived in the Americas. As a white person living in Canada, I knew these places were bad, but I never realized how bad until the bodies of hundreds of children were found just outside the town I live in.

The severity of the situation prompted many journalists, including myself, to pay attention to Indigenous issues like never before. But writing about horrific instances of discrimination is more than just writing; it’s learning, it’s growing and it’s taking a stance. 

However, to be a journalist is to conform to some notion of neutrality. When you’re writing about politics, you don’t voice your own views; you simply state the facts of the situation. Yet we live in an Oldspeak world where words by themselves will always convey implicit messages, no matter how hard we try to steer clear of stances.

The Canadian government has always referred to these institutions for Indigenous children as “residential schools,” but as news spread about the realities of these places, many Indigenous activists began to put quotations around the word “schools,” a style choice I, too, adopted into my writing. The decision is not meant to be a polarizing one. It is simply recognizing the subtle sugarcoating of history and making an effort to modernize outdated language. These were not, as we would define them today, schools.

“As a newspaper, it’s not our place to take stances,” he said. “Our job is to be neutral and simply relay black-and-white information.”

What this position fails to recognize, however, is that neutrality is its own bias. People were hurt by these institutions; people are still hurting because of them. A dichotomy of power exists in our society because of this history, and to remain neutral is a nonchalant means of accepting this.

In the Canadian Press style guide, the section on inclusive word choices in writing represents this issue: “But don’t get carried away. To write human energy or human resources to avoid manpower, or person-eating tiger to avoid man-eating tiger is being hypersensitive.”

I disagree with this sentiment, as I don’t believe hypersensitivity is something the modern journalist needs to run from. We often use words such as manpower because we have a culture that largely favors men. Would it be so terrible to evolve this thinking?

I have found that in many issues around discrimination and socioeconomic oppression, neutrality is nothing but a listless fallacy. In such cases, one group will always be on top, and the dichotomy of power alone creates an implicit bias. To take no side is to take the side of the one on top. I figure if you cannot avoid taking a stance, you must be deliberate.

Language is a weapon that we must wield responsibly. Take care in choosing your words and think about every bias you take, including that of neutrality.

Biases Come In Many Forms—and Neutrality Is One of Them

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 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.

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.

Pop Culture

As a Journalist, I’ve Been Trolled Online: This Is Why It Needs to Stop

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.

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.” 

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.

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.

Is There a Place in Pop Culture Journalism for a 40-Year-Old Woman?

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.

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.

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 Became a Writer to Impress a Girl

Media and journalism was a calling I accidentally discovered after years of trial and error in my career, a luxury many of us cannot afford. Journalism isn’t one of those careers people necessarily jump at the chance to become a part of: The hours are long. The pay is horrendous. There’s not much of a path. There are a lot of people out there trying to censor you, and if you’re in print media, you’re part of a dying breed. 

For me, the satisfaction of covering a good news story, getting my name out there and doing what I love makes up for all these downsides. But I’m looking to leave this career. I’m looking to leave what I love simply because as a woman in my country, it's extremely difficult. 

In Sri Lanka, women who travel are not safe. This poses a risk for us female journalists, as it does almost everywhere in the world. Having been in this field for a few years, my trips need meticulous planning. In 2020, I took my first solo trip out of our city to see a tourism area impacted by the pandemic. The area was densely populated. My travel time was mainly in broad daylight—I thought I would be fine. 

But from the get-go, my lone presence was questioned, from the bus conductor who gave me a funny look when I asked for one ticket, to the hotel clerk who straight up asked, “Why are you traveling alone?” to the stares and leers I got on the street, on the beach and inside cafes. The hotel clerk had to get an explanation that I was traveling for work and that I work for a newspaper for him to relax. 

I was always hyper-aware of people looking at me and, in particular, men. All in all, I heaved a sigh of relief when I reached home unscathed. But as a journalist who does most of her interviews online or through phone calls and events through invitations to the organizations, my exposure to unsafe environments was still less than most.

Last month, I was required to travel to a rural area to follow up on a one-of-a-kind story, something I was very excited to do. Trying to make my travel arrangements, my photographer had an emergency situation and canceled on me. I had to look at more expensive hotels simply because they were located on a busy road. Safe neighborhoods became a priority, as well as safer routes. Travel times were different and during limited, mostly daylight hours. Speaking to my friends, I found out all my fellow journalists who had been to those areas solo were men. In the end, I was forced to postpone my work trip so that I could match it up with a weekend some of my other friends were going to the area for leisure. Frustrating? Yes.

But working as a female journalist in Sri Lanka is difficult not only because we're unsafe out in the field but also because we're unsafe in our workplaces too. My main work is in editorial, which means we sit at our desks reading through all the stories everyone else has followed up on. However, as a woman, your opinion is discounted much more easily. While most of my current workplace’s editorial staff is women, ours is the only department that is 100 percent female. Unexpectedly (or not, in our culture), the board had some concerns. Some of the typical questions we received from our initial interview with the department head went like this: “How much experience writing and editing do you have?” “Are you comfortable with tight deadlines and long work hours?” “How detail oriented are you?” As expected.

Here are some of the typical questions we had to field with our interviews with the CEO: “Are you still single?” “Are you living with your parents then?” 

Outraged doesn’t begin to describe it. 

Likewise, certain members of the editorial staff easily discount our opinions on the grounds that “women are too sensitive.” Salary increases are harder to come by, and consideration regarding safe travel or working night shifts is also not given sometimes. I’ve worked at several places where the insinuation has been that as a woman, I do not deserve the pay that my male colleagues are getting, despite me doing the exact same work as them. However, even with these setbacks, I am fortunate to work in a much better office environment than some of my colleagues. 

My colleagues tell stories of how they cannot wear a dress to work without getting catcalled, how some of their bosses simply call them into their offices and scream at them to intimidate them into working, how some interns are hired simply for their looks and with unknown intentions. Gaslighting, verbal abuse and more are rampant in our newsrooms, with the truth being that no one will believe the women. 

Earlier last year, Sri Lanka’s #MeToo movement began, extremely late, regarding the stories of women in the media and the sexism and abuse we endure almost on a daily basis. The sad part is, it is not only local women who are subjected to this treatment but also women from other countries working here. They face even more issues, with derogatory comments openly following them, relying on the fact that they do not understand the local dialects and do not know enough people to make a complaint. 

Even the very papers we seek to publish are oftentimes rampant with this inherent sexism. Every so often, we edit and change content so obviously demeaning to women that it’s a wonder nobody thought there was anything wrong with it. We had a recurring columnist once who described the high-class ladies as “gold-digging airheads,” among other things, while other writers draw up relations between criminal records and single women, accidents and women, etc.

From comments on lifestyle and marital status to commentaries on people’s wives and even daughters, we’ve seen it all. And it’s not a good place to be in.

I'm a Woman and Journalist in Sri Lanka: We Are Not Safe

I’m a freelance writer. It’s my real job. No, it doesn’t come with benefits. Yes, I do enjoy it. When you get an acceptance—when an editor you respect at a place you respect and actually read says that your words are great and they want to publish you—it’s a great feeling. When you write your heart out and publish something and your friends and family tell you you’re a good writer: Oh, man, does that feel good. When strangers find you on your website and make a point to tell you what your writing meant to them, that’s really the best. The highs are high and the lows are low. 

I wrote a piece for a major news outlet last summer. By major news outlet, I mean that they have their own TV channel where you might watch incoming election results or tune in during a national emergency. You likely watched them on 9/11 if you’re old enough to have been watching TV on 9/11. They also have an online presence, as all things do now, and I wrote about something I’m very passionate about for them. 

I was proud of my piece. I had great expert sources. They paid me. People I know were proud of me for it. It was a good freelancer experience. 

The weird thing about this particular outlet is that they didn’t have me sign a contract when they told me they’d accepted my piece. I thought it was odd, but I really wanted the byline, so I wrote it, the article was published and all was well.

I pitched the editor again and she agreed to the same terms: no contract, acceptance after two rounds of edits, same rate, same scope, same length. This is called “writing on spec,” meaning the editor gets to read the finished draft before accepting the story. I’d done it many times before. 

I got to work. I did three interviews with people highly respected in their field. I read many peer-reviewed studies and lots of laws and regulations surrounding the topic. I visited websites and found resources. I started a first draft. 

Two days before my draft was due, I got an email from the editor. “I screwed up,” she’d written. She explained that she had already assigned out a piece on this same topic. She apologized and said the topic was broad enough that she would send me the other writer’s draft. I could see if my work could be put into another article. 

I was deeply unhappy, but I’d put in hours of work already. I said, “Yes.” She sent over the draft. I recognized the author’s name. She was a well-respected writer with significantly more prestigious bylines than me. She’d spoken at a conference I’d attended. She was a rock star. Her article was great. She used many of the same research sources I did. It was, however, a little different than mine in that it was geared toward a slightly different audience. I told the editor I could make it work. 

I reworked the draft over the next two days and sent it in on time. The editor liked it and said she’d do some edits and get back to me. Her revisions and notes weren’t too scathing. I sent back a new draft, she edited some more and I did it again. Then, she started disliking some of my wording. I’d said an article I cited was a study when it was actually a summary of a study. I fixed it in another draft. At this point, we were on the third draft, acceptance territory. 

My last piece required six drafts with this editor; then, it went to a copy editor for two more rounds before publication. It was by far the most rounds of edits I’d ever had but also the newsiest place I’d ever written for. Still, my editor wasn’t satisfied with this new story. “Closer,” she told me, asking for more edits. She said she was “concerned” because she still had questions at every stage of the edit. I sent a new draft. 

Eventually, she killed the piece. She said it would take too much time to get it ready for publication. I asked about what to do—it had now gone through five rounds of editing. She said she wouldn’t be paying me a “kill fee,” an amount of money written into a contract for if a piece doesn’t run, usually half the promised price. She didn’t have to pay me because I wasn’t under contract. I could, however, sell the piece elsewhere. 

So I pitched it to some dream publications. They ghosted me or sent me rejections. I considered turning it into an op-ed for a newspaper, but it ran too long and would need to be completely reworked to shift from a feature to an opinion piece. I pitched it to other publications, ones that would pay me less but would get the words out there nonetheless. To this day, nothing. I turned in my first draft to the original editor in August and, as of the beginning of December, have yet to find it a home.

Yes, it’s my fault. The piece was too overwrought by the time I got through the gauntlet—there were too many twists in the editing process. It needs work in order to sell elsewhere. I didn’t sign a contract, and that’s also on me. I certainly won’t make that mistake again, even if it’s my number one dream publication. I wasted so much time. I feel tricked. Used. 

It’s also not my fault. This is mainstream news, a forum that’s supposed to have journalistic integrity. Their online publications are built on the backs of freelancers who have very few rights when it comes to their own time, rates and intellectual property. To get pieces placed in these publications, you have to give them your words, your time and your expertise for free and hope they pay you back in money but also prestige. Bylines beget bylines.

Was this a learning experience? Oh, yes, it was. Was it fun? No, no, no. Are any learning experiences fun? Not that I’m aware of.

My one experience with this one publication speaks to a bigger issue, which is that art, be it writing, visual or performance, is constantly undervalued and under-supported. We love our art, so we keep making it and consuming it, and the systems in place take advantage of the starving artist because there’s always more where that came from, always someone willing to work on something they love.

I’m not giving up on my piece or my freelancing career, but the takeaway is a bitter one. I pitched the story again today, with a slightly different hook, and am hoping to place it this year. Hope, the thing with feathers as Emily Dickinson puts it, will keep me singing my tune to every editor until I get that byline, whether with this piece or the next. The artist—the writer, in this case—like hope, never stops at all.

A Major News Outlet Screwed Me

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.

I myself ventured into this chaotic, toxic fray during the riots following George Floyd’s death.

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. 

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. 

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.

Neighbor Against Neighbor: My Foray Into the Fraught World of Posting on Social Media

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to be a journalist. As a child, I was so obsessed with my dad’s Sunday Times that I created my family’s own edition. Two copies of The Family Times were printed from my home computer each month, featuring interviews with my mum, dad, sister and brother about what was going on in their lives and which TV shows they were looking forward to watching. 

Fast-forward to today, some 15 years later, and I am working as a journalist for a news corporation in London. I absolutely love my job. I knew the second I started my training that I found my calling. 

During the height of the pandemic, I embarked on a six-month intensive journalism course and received top-quality teaching from leading editors in the industry. We covered everything from shorthand to interviewing skills, breaking news stories, court reporting, current affairs, media law and public affairs. 

Though it was a great introduction to journalism, these lessons did not provide everything I needed to be a good reporter. That, I believe, has been a series of painful experiences in my personal life over the past three-and-a-half years.

The first trial came in the spring of 2018, when my beloved father suffered an unexpected and fatal heart attack. My dad and I were incredibly close, and everyone who knew us well commented on how alike we were in temperament and personality. He had honesty, integrity and humility seeping from his pores, and he was respected by everyone who knew him. He was considered the rock in our family due to his calm nature and steadiness in the storms of life. The pain of losing him was unbearable, and for the first time in my life, I could say I knew what gut-wrenching pain felt like. I didn’t know how I would ever recover from such a loss. 

Only two years later, I experienced heartbreak for the first time in my life, another encounter with acute pain that I thought would overwhelm me. I had been with my partner for almost three years, during which time I had lost my dad, and together we had navigated our first relationships and the heady experience of falling in love for the first time. My ex-partner was an extremely special soul, and I had never had such strong feelings about anyone in that way before. I adored him, but I knew in my heart of hearts that our lives were not meant to be lived together forever. It was the hardest decision I have ever had to make, and I pray I won’t have to again. Amidst the breakup, I, like everyone else on earth, was coping with the onset of a pandemic which brought uncertainty, chaos and fear that touched every corner of the globe. 

Through it all, I came to learn what the Bible meant about the valley of despair. I have never felt so empty and alone in my entire life. I was navigating emotions I had never known before.

Everyone has their own story about how COVID has affected their lives and the untold damage it has caused. For me, the consecutive lockdowns that the U.K. had to endure only further forced my family and I to face the reality that my dad was no longer here with us. Every night, we sat around the table for family dinner, his chair at the end of the table empty, and tried to pretend the uncertainties weren’t eating us all up inside. With each conversation, the absence of my dad’s reassuring and calm voice became more apparent.

The most recent test came earlier last year when I graduated from my journalism program and struggled for six months to find employment. I went through a continuous cycle of applying for jobs and either never hearing back or attending interviews with the inevitable email replies saying, “We’ll be in touch,” or, “Please apply again when you have more experience.”

I began to question whether I was in the right industry or not and if I was ever good enough for the job in the first place. It felt like the lack of control and uncertainty in my life was too much to handle. I was desperate for consistency in even one aspect of my life. On top of everything else, I was trying to settle in a new city, which felt like one challenge after another. 

In spite of the hardship, I have come to learn some invaluable life lessons which I believe have helped me become a better journalist.

Some journalists earn themselves reputations as bloodthirsty ambulance chasers. I’ve heard people argue that reporters are always desperate for the latest scoop and will go to any lengths to get the juicy details of a good story. Various media scandals in the U.K., such as the News of the World’s phone hacking debacle in the mid-2000s, have only proved that point. Though this is the case in some instances, I believe the best reporters possess kindness, compassion, humility and, above all, empathy.

Reporters tell the ongoing story of human tragedy and suffering. Journalists, like first responders, often encounter people on the worst days of their lives, which is why we must be able to relate to those at their lowest point. The adversity I have experienced has unquestionably shaped me, and I now feel better prepared to relate to those who truly know what it is to suffer. I believe I have always cared about people’s circumstances, but experiencing pain of my own gave me a whole new perspective on how to relate to those facing hardship. I have adopted a powerful drive to encourage and uplift others who have been knocked by life and reassure them that there is a greater hope to live for.

My father had big dreams for me. He used to tell me that someday I would write for the Los Angeles Times and present on BBC News at Ten, a show he watched religiously. Losing my dad without doubt made me more ambitious. I wanted to prove to myself and others that his loss didn’t diminish me. But it’s also given me a whole new level of empathy which I want to share.

I’ve been able to stand alongside a friend who lost a parent to COVID-19, reach out to fathers who lost their sons to suicide and speak through a charity helpline initiative with strangers who are struggling because of the pandemic. Though I may have not gone through exactly the same experiences, I have still felt equipped to offer an encouraging word and show that there are people out there who care. I have even been surprised by my compulsion to tell and show people that they are not on their own in their pain.

The last three-and-a-half years have tested me beyond what I ever thought I could cope with, but I am here and I believe I am a better journalist for it. Before, success for me was about the need to prove to myself that I had value and to show others that I was worth something. But since overcoming these personal life hurdles, I now have a new reason for wanting to be a great journalist. 

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