I quit my job one year ago. I broke the cardinal rule. I did it without having another job lined up.
And you know what?
I would go back and do it again.
I was working as a television news reporter in Binghamton, New York. It was my first job out of college. I thought it was my dream job, but a series of unfortunate events quickly made me realize I wanted more. I wanted more from my career. Not more as in fame or notoriety. I wanted my career to provide work/life balance. I wanted a more liveable salary. I wanted a healthy work environment where I felt challenged but not disposable.
I didn’t receive that working as a reporter. Eventually, though, I found more.
It’s a long story, so buckle up.
On my fifth day of work in Binghamton, I was sexually harassed by a colleague. He continually made unwanted sexual comments toward me until his final day at the station, a few months after I started.
He was infatuated with me. The feelings were not mutual. Instead of respecting my space, he pushed the boundaries. I played it off as a joke.
I should have reported him. But I was afraid. What credibility did I have? He had tenure with the station. Me? I had five days under my belt. I kept quiet and worked harder.
The inappropriate circumstances don’t end there. Dating and sleeping with coworkers were just a natural occurrence at our station. We were all young, living in a new area, working together — normalizing sexual tendencies with each other.
I can’t say I was above this circumstance.
I dated my coworker. We loved and respected each other very much. We hardly fought and tried to keep our work and relationship separate. (We ended things due to long-distance.) Although my ex-boyfriend and I were professional, the drama happening around us never ceased. People would get jealous and fight with one another in the office, then report on-camera together as if nothing happened.
Rumors were spread — a few nasty ones about me.
You would expect to receive body-shaming comments from the public when you work on television. Instead, the bulk of body shaming I endured was from my coworkers. People I had once called my friends. I hated getting dressed or looking at myself on camera, knowing people scrutinized how I looked. I tried dieting. When I lost weight, people still had comments to make. I was damned either way.
I tried my best to ignore these comments and keep my eye on the prize.
After a while, the prize that motivated me for so long started looking duller and duller each day.
For starters, I earned $12.25 an hour. Hardly a livable salary, especially given the circumstances.
The workplace environment encouraged competition against our coworkers. There were apparent favorites. No matter how hard you worked, if you weren’t a favorite, then you probably weren’t getting the best story that day. Chances are you prayed another reporter would royally fuck up so you could earn the top story that day. Shamefully — I sometimes indulged in these thoughts.
I was sent on stories alone most of the time. Just me and a heavy camera bag. It wasn’t always safe. One time a woman was brutally assaulted in her own home. The two men who attacked her were still on the loose. My boss (who had recently just started) sent me on this story alone. He wanted me to canvass the area, try to find the victim, and get as much footage as possible. He even suggested hunting down the suspects.
I spent a few hours on the scene but could not get anything. The victim was not home, and I was in a seedy area. I didn’t want to wait alone in my car any longer than I had to.
I went back to the station. My boss asked me if I interviewed anyone. I said no and that I felt unsafe. I requested a cameraman so as not to be alone. He declined my request and said,
“I don’t know what you’re even doing back without sound. Go back out there and don’t come back until you got something.”
I went back and ended up being verbally threatened by a large man. I left the scene and pursued another story without asking for permission from my boss.
The more instances like these continued to occur, the more I felt myself deteriorate.
I could hardly make it out of bed in the morning. The pressure of needing to look perfect, competing against my coworkers, dressing a certain way, be put in potentially dangerous situations all while struggling to pay bills — alcohol felt like my relief. Coming home and drinking glasses of scotch on a weeknight felt normal. Calling out of work because of a wicked hangover became a regular occurrence.
Not healthy and entirely unlike me.
Instead of accepting the situation as is, I changed it. I quit. While under contract. I had to be calculated about my exit to avoid serious legal implications. After about a week of negotiating, I found my freedom.
I hadn’t the slightest clue about what or where to go next. Part of me was afraid. Part of me felt exhilarated. A clean slate felt like exactly what I deserved.
But of course, some tough decisions had to be made.
Did I want to try reporting again, somewhere else? Or, did I want to live out my dream of living in a major city?
I interviewed for some reporting gigs, but it didn’t feel right. I feared more of the same would happen again, just in a different area.
One year later…
I’m in Boston now. I work in content marketing for a tech startup.
I love it for multiple reasons.
This role fulfills everything I loved about reporting. I still film shows. I write stories. I voice podcasts. I conduct research. I do everything I enjoy while also feeling safe.
My coworkers have my best interest at heart. We all work together for the same common goal rather than against one another. Workplace relationships don’t exist. Oh, and no one has said anything negative about my body.
I make a more livable salary. I can finally afford to treat myself to a nice dinner or a new outfit.
The work/life balance exceeds my greatest expectations, especially considering my dog gets to come to the office with me.
I am happy. It’s been a tough year, but looking back on the decision I’ve made, I’m proud of the growth it provided me.
While acknowledging this growth, I’d be remiss not to mention the occasional nostalgia I feel.
Sometimes I miss the thrill of going live at 5 p.m. or interviewing the police chief on a crime scene. Sometimes I miss the relationships I had, even though a majority of them were toxic.
One year removed from the past, and I find myself clinging onto the good memories more than the bad. Although these memories twinge my heart, I prefer to focus on the good.
Working as a reporter presented me with extraordinary challenges at a young age. I’m better off having experienced those challenges.
Moving forward with my life, I don’t want to remember the bad. I want to look back on my time as a reporter and accept it as a learning situation.
I learned how to work hard. I learned how to think twice about who you trust. I learned how to accept love. I learned the power of storytelling. I learned the volume of my gut. I learned the importance of burning down bridges that lacked proper support.
The hardest part one year later is feeling as if I owe people an explanation. Depending on the person, I explain my departure in depth. And, other times, I simply say, “It wasn’t what I wanted.”
I am not a modern-day Confucius when it comes to life advice. However, I do strongly advise anyone who feels consistently unhappy in a situation to do everything in their power to change it. If people ever question your decisions, remember it’s your life to live. Everyone’s path is different. I found mine by prioritizing the things I value most — mental health, respect, and happiness.
Disclaimer: I met many wonderful people while working in Binghamton. Some individuals truly did have my best interest at heart. They will remain lifelong friends of mine.
