There are few users on reddit who love to hate me. Yes, I lurk there. Although I overwhelmingly receive nothing but support and positivity, those few voices are the ones that ring out. I search out their comments and read them on repeat. They all say the same thing I’ve heard all my life, that girl must be difficult.
There was an interesting story I read about in the old pop science book Freakonomics. It was about two brothers, one named Winner and the other named Loser. Their father believed names could shape destiny and wanted to test out this theory on his own sons (fucked up, I know). Contrary to his expectations, Winner went on to become a convicted criminal several times over while Loser got a scholarship and became a sergeant. It reminded me of the labeling theory in sociology which argues that how an individual is defined by others determines how they feel about themselves and in turn how they interact with the world.
I grew up in an extremely conservative family and only interacted with a limited group of people with similar views until I reached adulthood. My life was small and secluded. They were all immigrants from Bangladesh, away from their families and homes in a new, often hostile, country. They did what they thought was protecting us, demanding full control over their children. I never handled it well. Early on I was kicked out of several mosques for being difficult: Pointing out that the boys got to learn how to read Arabic fully and therefore comprehend the Quran, while the girls were only allowed to learn how to sound out the letters. Asking why the girls had to cover their head and the boys didn’t. And why our periods were so dirty that we weren’t allowed to pray when on them. (Talking about your period at all was horrific enough.) This not only disappointed but deeply embarrassed my family and I always felt torn, flipping between feeling proud and disgusted by myself.
It’s an uneasy thing believing that your mother will only love you if you do what she wants. When my parents found out I had a boyfriend in college, they stood outside my dorm room on their knees, crying and screaming, hollering my name. I lost all my friends after that because who wants to associate with all that drama. I dropped out of school the next day. In an idiotic attempt to make things better I married the guy. That did not make things better. I was divorced after a year. My mother was so embarrassed by my divorce that on my wedding day to Ham she apologized to his father for having to take me, this difficult girl, into his family.
Looking at these instances removed from the community I was raised in, I know that I did nothing wrong, but I have never stopped feeling like I did. No matter how old I get or distant I’ve become from my family, deep down, all I want is their approval. All I want is to believe that my mother could love me for who I am, without having to give her my complete obedience. I’ve finally realized that my fucked up family shit is why I repeatedly struggle at work.
I cannot more emphatically express how much I did not want to have to tell anyone that I’m no longer working with the Times. I know this would make me a repeat offender, the girl who cried low pay. I was convinced no one would notice, and I’m sure the folks at the Times were, too. They stretched out my last batch of recipes, which I had delivered to them in October 2024, across a year. But with cookie week came floods of messages in my dm’s asking me where I am. A more level headed person would not have let it get to them. In a week everyone would have forgotten, but I always feel like I have to comply. I don’t want to disappoint you.
I haven’t wanted to work with the Times for a few years now, but I found it hard to say no. We shot the first season of Cooking 101 when I was between 34 and 36 weeks pregnant. Part of the shoot was done outdoors in August where the temperature climbed above 90 degrees. I ended up in triage where doctors determined that they had to induce because working in the heat caused my blood pressure to reach dangerous levels. My hopes for a natural delivery were shattered all for six YouTube videos at $800 each. None of those shots aired. I was never informed why, but can only assume that it would have been a bad look to open the episodes with a sweaty, heavily pregnant woman about to pass out. I should have said no then, but I was afraid of being difficult.
When their deputy editor approached me about season 2, she never asked me if I was interested, it was automatically assumed. I didn’t have the space to say no. She insisted on moving immediately into preproduction, before discussing my compensation. I attended several meetings that stretched on for hours. I hated every moment of it and grew increasingly resentful. I should have just said no, but I was afraid of being difficult. I did not want to be the person that kept moving from job to job. I so badly did not want to give those redditors more ammunition. I did not want to once again embarrass my family. My hyperfocus on this label, the difficult girl, and all my attempts to avoid it, just keeps pulling me toward it. If I had set boundaries early on, I could have stepped out with grace. Instead we moved on to shoot 3 of the 12 planned episodes where all my frustrations bubbled over and I did become difficult. I was short and dull on camera. It was my worst shoot yet. I had to teach a lesson on asparagus, an ingredient I couldn’t care less about but apparently was good for SEO. I didn’t follow the script, barely knew the recipes, and snapped at the producer when they tried feeding me lines. Afterwards I pulled out of the show. They asked if I was okay with them airing the already shot episodes and I said no. Then the deputy editor called me and screamed. She screamed and shouted like mom did outside my dorm. She said all the things my mom said to me. I was ungrateful, I was a disappointment, and of course, I was difficult. So no, I’m not in cookie week this year.
