After less than two years in the journalism world, I called it quits. Why you may ask? My mental health begged me to.
When I chose a major in college, I was undecided at first, not knowing exactly what I wanted to do. I wanted to dedicate the next four years to something I enjoyed, considering I would likely spend the rest of my adulthood paying off my education. I loved true-crime, reading, and writing. I enjoyed digging deep to find out information, flipping through files, compiling data, and more or less, figuring things out. Plus, I wanted to tie in my long-time interest in true crime. Alas, I chose to study journalism.
A few months after graduating, I found a job reporting for a paper close to my hometown. I was the only news reporter, and I worked alongside a sports reporter and an advertisement representative. When I left, they did not fill my position. The paper no longer prints, and a large majority of its stories are written by reporters at its sister paper.
When I landed my second reporting job, the newsroom was bustling and lively: Copy editors, managing editors, columnists, photographers, multiple reporters. It was promising. We were creating quality content in a fun atmosphere. It was what I had envisioned a newsroom being like. The stress was good in the beginning. I was reading police reports daily, looking at jail bookings from the night prior, and getting the inside information on the latest crimes. At this point I absolutely loved my job, knowing the ins and outs of what was going on around the city.
I enjoyed writing for a paper I grew up reading, knowing it was the best in the area. I loved seeing the number of readers and views on each article I wrote. I was constantly thinking about what story I wanted to write next. I remember looking at my analytics, seeing I had reached over one million views on my stories. It was a click-hungry world where print was dying.
After a few months, I started to get overwhelmed. Very overwhelmed. No matter if I was in the newsroom or not, I was constantly thinking about work—whether it be writing, speaking with sources, or talking to coworkers about stories and upcoming assignments. My work-life balance was declining. I hardly had time for myself, let alone for my friends or family. I never wrote for pleasure, or read anything other than news stories.
I would have terrible anxiety before work, so much so I felt like vomiting. If I had to cover an event or work on something I had zero interest in, I would think about it and dread clocking in.
After working at this paper for a few months, the newsroom was slowly but surely dwindling, as editors, photographers, and reporters were getting picked off, one by one with constant layoffs. As time went on, fewer of us remained. When two reporters left, their positions were not filled. When an editor left after two decades, his position was also not filled. Everyone was on overdrive and slaves to the corporation.
It doesn’t necessarily boost your morale when your (then-future) husband is laid off, along with a woman who had put in countless hours for nearly three decades and a photographer who was let go after less than two months of employment. It was disheartening and made me think, “When is it my turn to go?” I was worried about everyone.
Do you know the episode of Spongebob when Squidward moves to Tentacle Acres, a luxury neighborhood filled with all of his favorite things and hobbies? Over time, little by little, he becomes less content until finally, he is just miserable.
I was Squidward, and journalism was Tentacle Acres. I loved the excitement in the beginning. But then the stress ate me alive and pushed me to the edge.
I also don’t think many sources took me seriously. I was frequently referred to as “kiddo” at the age of 23. When I was interviewing some employees of a restaurant, I rhetorically asked why I hadn’t been there before, because it was a neat place. She said it was because I am “only 10 years old and need adult supervision” and that I “looked like a little girl.” There were other unnecessary comments made, that just would never happen to men.
To be a good journalist means to really love the job. And I was not that person anymore. I applaud all of those who do what they do, because it’s a TOUGH job, and you all deserve way more credit (and money) for what you do. I know several strong, talented, dedicated women in the field. They are killing it because they have that passion I don’t have.
Reporters are sacrificing their well-being and mental health, especially in this day and age. I wasn’t cut out for it.
Something I’ve never necessarily shared publicly is that I have bipolar disorder. I have struggled with it my entire life and have found myself in some dark places. Although well-managed now, the extra stress and anxiety I was experiencing pushed me to my breaking point. When I was feeling low, the last thing I wanted to do was cover a Trump rally or write a story about a lack of helium on the planet.
I had to take a few days off of work for a mental health break. I hardly got out of bed. I was thinking about how I was letting down my coworkers and the paper itself, not getting any stories in on time. When I came back, I absolutely did not want to be there. I needed to be doing something I loved, something impactful without wanting to chug a bottle of wine after work every day. I was no longer doing the things I liked. I never wrote for fun. I hardly read any books. I didn’t go hiking. Most of the time, I wanted to quit and flee to the Yukon Territory and go into hiding. Not only was I depressed, but I also don’t believe I was fairly compensated. It got to a point where my bank account was at $74, and I really didn’t know what to do.
I was hanging on to what little strand of hope was left, trying to get that same fire back for informing the public as I had when I started. It was entirely difficult when I felt so low, coupled with readers, subscribers, sources, and even government officials feeding reporters negativity constantly— Being told we were producing yellow-journalism and feeding lies to the public. Someone even created a “hate page” on Facebook about the newspaper, and several people commented hoping we would go out of business. I felt like my hard work wasn’t benefiting the public nor myself.
It was time to choose: I had to pick between being an overworked, underpaid reporter, or get to a place that would better my mental health.
I chose the latter. When I had an interview at a non-profit, I didn’t expect to get offered the job the same day. When I attempted to quit the paper, I told the editor I had to take this new job because “It really speaks to my soul.” There was something about it, and I had a feeling it would be worth it to take a gamble and leave journalism. I am now working at a non-profit that has an important mission. My work-life balance is what it should be. But most importantly, I fell back in love with writing, reading, and things I love doing.
If you are miserable at your job, in your industry, with your major, in a class, or even a relationship, get out of there, leave it, run, and don’t look back. Do it for your own well-being.
About the Author
Hello! I’m Kennedy (Nolen) Polanski. I work in the admin office of a Central Illinois non-profit, which focuses on providing an “Island of Safety” to children and supporting families in crises. I’m a big reader, certified camper, *new* Girl Scout troop leader, avid hiker, and mediocre crocheter! (Hit me up for a pot holder.) I also perfected my blueberry pancake recipe during the stay-at-home order— and it’s to die for. When I find a spare minute, I like to share first-hand, comical content on my personal sector of the Internet, thekennedyera.com.
