As a kid, I believed that there’d be a day when I could sit back and know, with crystal clarity, that I’d made it. I idolized powerful, impactful women and the idea of “having it all”. That fantasy of having a fulfilling and profitable career, healthy relationships, and a happy family felt attainable. If I simply worked hard enough, that type of life could be mine.
I believed that such success— individual achievement defined by wealth and professional ascendance— would make me happy. I clung to this belief for years, since the media I consumed only perpetuated this myth.
30 under 30 lists and dazzling profiles of young people who’d “made it” consumed my attention. I would often pick one of these individuals and see what age they were when they got their first big break. I would set that as my goalpost— I must have X by age Y, or else I’d be a failure. I couldn’t see that these individuals were receiving such coverage because they were anomalies. It isn’t normal to succeed at such a young age, yet I felt guilty when I couldn’t measure up to the ones who had.
Regardless, I continued to pursue this version of success. It looked so glamorous, so alluring. And it seemed fruitful for those who thrived. Jia Tolentino discusses this in Trick Mirror’s “Always Be Optimizing” essay. Tolentino explores the ideal woman and how the demands on us have expanded and evolved. She acknowledges that feminine optimization can feel empowering, even though we’re simply “maximiz[ing] our capacity as market assets”. She writes, “There are rewards for succeeding under capitalism and patriarchy; there are rewards even for being willing to work on its terms. There are nothing but rewards, at the surface level. The trap looks beautiful. It’s well-lit. It welcomes you in”. The lure was cast in front of me and I bit.
I was living in Los Angeles and had quickly gotten a job in entertainment, my chosen field. I hoped to work my way up the ladder and eventually become a TV writer. I felt lucky and grateful but that only sustained me for so long. I sometimes worked long nights and often completed tasks beyond my responsibilities. While living off a $35,000 salary, I planned a company party that cost over $10,000. I’d stay at the office past midnight for photoshoots and events. I once responded to work texts while laying in an E.R. hospital bed. I didn’t receive overtime but I did receive praise for my hard work, worthless when it came time to pay rent. My relationships and personal life were moved to the backburner but I thought I’d eventually be rewarded for this hard work.
I received a promotion after a year. Though I gained a lofty new title, my boss told me that the best they could do was raise my salary to $45,000. I discussed this with a friend who also worked in entertainment. When she heard that number, she asked how much I was currently making if that was the raise. I was embarrassed and angry at myself for undervaluing my own labor.
I had been at the beck and call of this company that didn’t care about me for over a year. Was I any closer to my dreams? I’d gotten the promotion, but I still wasn’t happy. I was lonely, living in a city that I disliked, barely saw my boyfriend, and hadn’t written in several months. Achievement hadn’t paid the dividends I’d come to expect.
And from there, I questioned the progression of this path. If I kept getting more promotions, more money— would I be happy then?
I came to an (in hindsight, obvious) conclusion: wealth and proximity to power are not positively correlated with happiness. Both are subject to diminishing returns. And while money and power make life easier, they also make you increasingly complicit in a system that harms you.
Despite my limited power as an assistant, I found myself upholding this system. I hired and managed a group of unpaid interns, a method of gatekeeping that kept poor and underprivileged people from entering the industry. For one project, we worked with a talented graphic artist based in the Philippines. My boss was thrilled at how cheap his services were due to his location. I stayed quiet, not mentioning the fact that my mom and grandparents had emigrated from that same country. I got used to my boss asking me to contract stylists, makeup artists, and photographers who were “young and hungry”. I understood this euphemism— let’s find someone who we can exploit because they don’t yet know their worth. I smiled and nodded and acquiesced. I wondered if I fell into that category when I was hired.
I began to reevaluate my goals and the assumptions I made about the women I idolized. Their lives had looked so promising from the outside. But just because they had a glossy career didn’t mean that their inner life was the same. Many of these so-called girlbosses were later exposed for abusing their power. I feared where my own slippery slope would lead.
Four months after my promotion, I quit.
I didn’t have a new job lined up, or any real plan. I just knew that I’d be moving back to New York City.
I know that, by doing this, I enjoyed a level of privilege that not many people have. I had savings I could rely on, a boyfriend to support me, and an upper middle class family to fall back on if all else failed.
It made me exceedingly uncomfortable to partly depend on a man for my survival. In allowing myself to rely on my boyfriend, I worried that I was now upholding the patriarchy, switching from one oppressive system to another. When I voiced this concern to him, he reassured me. He said that no amount of money would be able to repay me for everything I’ve done for him.
Our time and energy are finite— when we devote so much of it to labor, we allow other parts of our lives to wither away. We spend less time cultivating our relationships because we view it as a distraction rather than a respite.
In the last years of his life, my grandfather was surrounded by family. He lived in his daughter’s home and his children bathed, fed, and dressed him. Before he retired, my grandfather had worked a desk job at the EPA. He resided in a modest apartment and devoted weekday afternoons to watching me after school. He spent weekends with his adult children, visiting museums and malls and restaurants. The time he had was spent with those he loved. And when he needed us, we provided for him.
In upholding the individualism that capitalism necessitates, we overestimate its rewards. Money is nice, but it can only go so far.
In an alternate universe, I might’ve stayed in Los Angeles. I would’ve broken up with my boyfriend and had even more time to spend at the office. Eventually, I might’ve ended up in the C-Suite, no longer working thankless entry-level jobs. My colleagues would be among my only friends, not because I liked them but simply because I spent the most time with them. I would arrive home every night to a beautifully furnished but empty home, wondering if this was how success was supposed to feel.