It was 3am in the summer of 2017, and I was lying in a triple bunk bed in a hostel in London, listening to the sounds of the 14 other people in my dormitory snoring. I had been working unpaid internships in the fashion industry in London for the past 18 months and living in £12-a-night hostels. When I could not sleep, I would watch TV on my phone to drown out the noise. I was watching Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, an absurdist comedy about a woman who moves to New York after 15 years imprisoned in a doomsday cult’s underground bunker.
Growing up in Essex, I dreamed of a future in fashion, imagining a life working at Vogue. The reality was far from glamorous. I was 23 and technically employed by one of the biggest fashion magazines, one I grew up worshipping. As an intern, I was paid nothing. I worked 9am to 5pm, often relegated to the fashion closet for hours on end. Then, from 7pm to 2am, I did various actual jobs, from flyering for gyms to manning the door of a strip club, trying to scrape together enough money for my hostel bill. I survived on free hostel breakfasts and cheap peanut butter sandwiches, hiding my situation to maintain a professional appearance.
I tried to keep my living situation a secret, but one fashion PR firm I had interned at found out I was living in hostels and told my whole office that I was homeless. My boss publicly gave me £100 in cash and said I was “so brave”: the same boss who paid me in “experience” and “exposure”. Every unpaid internship came with the suggestion that it “could lead to a full-time job”, encouraging me to believe that I was on the brink of my big break: that if I was just in the right place at the right time, saying the right things and wearing the right outfit, I might make it. However, it had been over a year, and the only interns I ever saw progress seemed to already have connections.
In the episode of Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt I watched that night—Kimmy Gives Up!—her optimistic veneer finally cracks. Her landlord, Lillian, offers her some well-timed advice: “I know you’re tough and you never give up, but sometimes the hardest thing you can do is just quit and walk away.” Lillian also sings a spoof called Just Go On, a sarcastic parody of Tomorrow from the musical Annie. Somewhere in that minute and 53 seconds, everything shifted into place. I remember being in that triple bunk bed with tears silently streaming down my face. I had been bending over backwards for these internships, but I could not pretend anymore.
The next day, I quit. I told my boss I had run out of money, was living in hostels and I could not work for free any more. She was unbothered and made it clear I was utterly replaceable. But another well-placed quote from Lillian echoed in my ears: “The sooner you quit something that stinks, the sooner you can find something that doesn’t. Save your hope for that.” So I did. I have since built a career in film and TV, mainly comedies. If I had never walked out of that office, I would not have found what was waiting for me all along.
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