In the summer of 2017, at 3am, I lay in a triple bunk bed in a London hostel, listening to 14 other people snore. I had been working unpaid internships in the fashion industry for 18 months, living in £12-a-night hostels. To drown out the snores, I watched TV on my beaten-up phone. That night, I was watching Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt, an absurdist comedy about a woman who moves to New York after 15 years in a doomsday cult’s underground bunker.
Her relentless positivity often inspired me to keep going, but that night, the opposite happened: Kimmy gave me the courage to give up.
Dreams vs reality
Growing up in Essex, I dreamed of a future in fashion, seeing myself in an artist’s warehouse, working at Vogue and attending hot events. The reality was different. I was 23 and technically employed by one of the biggest fashion magazines, one I worshipped as a child. But as an intern, I was paid nothing. I worked 9am to 5pm, often relegated to the fashion closet for hours. Then, from 7pm to 2am, I did various jobs—flyering for gyms, manning the door of a strip club—to scrape together money for my hostel bill. Most hostels offered free breakfast, my only hot meal. For dinner, I ate peanut butter sandwiches from a loaf I bought weekly. My parents supported my dream, but it was up to me financially.
I desperately wanted to look put-together for work, but it wasn’t safe to leave anything in the hostel, so I carried all my belongings in a backpack. One day, my only pair of shoes—silver glittery New Look ballet pumps—fell apart. I hid in the office’s fashion closet and taped them back together, surrounded by beautiful designer heels.
The breaking point
I kept my situation secret, but a fashion PR firm I had interned at found out I was living in hostels and told my whole office I was homeless. My boss publicly gave me £100 in cash and called me “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 I was on the brink of my big break. But after over a year, the only interns who progressed seemed to have connections.
In the episode I watched that night—Kimmy Gives Up!—her optimistic veneer cracks. Her landlord Lillian offers 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 Annie. In that minute and 53 seconds, everything shifted.
Walking away
I remember lying in that triple bunk bed, tears silently streaming down my face. I’d been so positive, like Kimmy, bending over backwards for these internships—but I couldn’t pretend any more. The next day, I quit. I told my boss I had run out of money, was living in hostels, and couldn’t work for free. She was unbothered, making it clear I was utterly replaceable. But Lillian’s words echoed: “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. Just Go On is something I listen to often when torn between staying or leaving. If I had never walked out of that office, I wouldn’t have found what was waiting for me all along.
