I got laid off in February, right after a lovely trip to San Francisco. I wasn’t shocked—I felt it coming—but I thought I had at least another month. Maybe two. The company I worked at had four rounds of layoffs in one year. I’d start each quarter wondering if this would be the one to take me out. Funny enough, the day I started, there was a massive layoff. Writing was on the wall, but I guess that’s just tech now.
An industry I fought hard to transition into. Spent years worrying I wasn’t “tech enough,” smart enough, competent enough. Like if I didn’t speak the right language or show enough rigor, I’d be exposed. And now? The industry’s a mess. Everything’s falling apart. Two layoffs in under two years, both in the name of restructuring. Is this what I worked so hard for? I can’t help but laugh.
I’ve felt like absolute shit the last eight months. But the last two? They’ve been brutal. Some of it is the world—I won’t pretend to know how to fully process what’s happening, only that I feel this constant hum of disgust and grief. Innocent lives being torn apart. People who’ve worked their asses off being villainized or trafficked. And underneath it all, the U.S. military machine grinding away like it’s owed our silence in the name of “safety.” I feel a heavy, impending cloud of doom.
But also—selfishly—I’m worried about my own future. And I know that sounds bad. Like I’m not supposed to say that out loud. But two things can exist at once. So yeah. I’m scared about the world. And also, I’m really scared for myself. I feel like a failure. Like an idiot. And I’ve been trying so hard not to project that, but I’m so fucking tired.
There’s this sinking fear that maybe I’m not actually as good as I thought I was. That maybe I’m not that smart, not that talented. Maybe I just got lucky. And yeah, I know that probably sounds egotistical, but I’ve built so much of my worth around being good. If I’m not doing something “impressive,” then who the hell am I?
I know, rationally, I’m skilled. I can scale social media programs. I can shape brand tone. I can manage a PR crisis with just an overpriced candle and a bag of Cheez-Its. But I’ve spent so much of my career feeling misunderstood. Like I approach things differently and no one quite gets it. I’ll go to networking events with other social media people and immediately want to rip my eyes out. I don’t care about trends. I don’t care about going viral. I don’t care about being a girlie pop marketer.
I care about platforms. About moderation. About censorship and echo chambers and the increasingly bleak state of discourse online. And yeah, I respond to culture in my work—but most marketers are scared of taking risks. Agencies, in-house teams, doesn’t matter. Everything has become so derivative, so flat.
And still, despite all of this—I want more. I want to be a thought leader. I want to write things that matter. I want to be some strange mix of Kara Swisher and Gwyneth Paltrow and maybe Alexa Chung. Add some sex, turn it up to 100. I want to write for Playboy…and maybe rebrand it. I want people to listen to what I say and think, “Shit, she’s onto something.”
But lately I’ve had this creeping doubt that maybe I’m just boring. Maybe I have nothing important to say. Maybe I’ve spent so long thinking I’m special, and I’m not. And yeah, I definitely have a little bit of that complex—but I also think you have to, a little, if you’re willing to put your face on camera and build a whole website around your torrid musings.
Recently I made a TikTok and people were in the comments speculating if I still did sex work. Whether it was ill-intentioned or not, I don’t know. But it bummed me the fuck out. Like—can a girl just exist? Or do I perpetually have to wear a bedazzled A and scream from the rooftops I’m a whore, see my hole for $8.99 a month?
The truth is, yeah, I’ve had to go back to sex work. This market sucks. I need money coming in. And trust me—I’m not thrilled about it. I’m embarrassed. Not because I think sex work is inherently shameful, but because I thought I was past that part of my life. I thought I was done needing it. And because I have to compartmentalize so hard when I’m on camera. I turn into someone else entirely. And I don’t particularly like that person. Which I’ve made peace with. But it’s hard. Because sometimes I feel like I’m not allowed to say any of this.
Like I’m bad for not making sex work sound more empowering. For not being grateful enough. But sex work is complicated. It can give you opportunities. And it can take them away. The only constant is that everyone has an opinion about it, even when they say they don’t.
Maybe I need to take a page out of Hilaria Baldwin’s book. I’ve been really into her batshit TikToks lately. Utterly delusional. Maybe a tad problematic. But she’s got a killer body, a New York penthouse, and a marriage to the least problematic Baldwin. Lucky woman. Beautifully delusional. Something we can all dream of, fake accent and all. Don’t be surprised when I debut a transatlantic accent.
So yeah, I’ll continue to identify as a retired sex worker turned techie. Because I have no attachment to that persona. I’m trying to let go of this fear of being perceived in a way I don’t want to be. I’m trying to brand myself how I want to be seen—as a smart and hot, well-rounded retired whore with exceptional taste. What? Like it’s hard to grasp?
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