MAPODILE / Getty Images
If anyone asks how I would describe myself, "independent" would be at the top of the list. I've always been focused and hardworking, having been employed since I was 15 years old.
How I earn my money has changed over the years, from working in retail, selling prom dresses and skinny jeans, to writing for a living.
Yet, at 31 years old, I'm more broke than I've ever been.
In March, I left my job of seven years to go freelance. It was something I'd been working toward since 2021 when I went part-time — after securing a mortgage and my first apartment — so I could properly dip my toe in self-employed waters. In the two days a week I wasn't working at a glossy publishing house, I built up contacts, wrote for different titles, covered new areas, and experienced the joy of controlling my own time.
But being my own boss for two days a week is a lot different from five, something I didn't properly appreciate until my last pay cheque ran out. Until then, I'd been able to focus on writing what I wanted to, often poorly paid but good for my portfolio, with the safety of a good monthly salary. But when my regular wages were gone, writing op-eds about race and identity or hot takes on Hollywood's latest releases wasn't cutting it, and I hadn't yet established consistent income streams. I did something I'd never done before — asked my parents for money to help pay my mortgage.
I hoped to only ask once, but the next month was tight, too. Now, my parents have committed to paying my mortgage for six months without me asking. They've witnessed how unhappy I was in my 10 years of corporate employment and how my mental health suffered. They've seen me bullied by a former manager and face racial and gender-based micro and macro aggressions. They've seen me apply for endless jobs, mostly to be beaten to the role by someone already covering the vacant position.
They say they're glad to be able to support me, knowing that I'll work hard to be self-sufficient again and that I don't take this gift for granted.
The money is a relief in a world where titles are closing every day, budgets are being slashed, and the pay per piece of work hasn't increased in almost a decade. But my parents' help means more than that — it's a vote of confidence at a time when I'm scared to jump into this new way of working. It's a message that they're here for me, despite living three hours away, and an encouragement to make my goals happen.
It's also special for its singularity, my parents not expecting to be able to help me in this way. While I lived a comfortable childhood and never wanted for anything, we weren't particularly well off. Sometimes, the stars align — my move to freelancing coincided with them receiving a small lump sum, hence their ability to pay my mortgage.
My parents haven't been able to sustain me in such a significant way before, and their insistence that they don't begrudge giving me this money, nor expect me to pay it back, despite my offers, makes it easier not to feel embarrassed or like a failure. After all, it's a tough time to be a journalist. I know that I've done as much as I can to lay the foundations for a sustainable career in a struggling industry in a country deep in a cost-of-living crisis.
I know that this support isn't an ongoing offer nor something I want to rely on. I've got six months to earn enough to build up some savings and start paying into a private pension, hopefully no longer anxious about every penny I spend or in my overdraft after a direct debit I forgot about.
I want to stand on my own two feet, but I can't feel too guilty when the world's not the same as it was for my parents' generation. Until then, I'm taking the money.
