Like millions of Americans, I lost most sources of income when the pandemic began last March. At the time, I didn’t have a full-time job. I held several odd gigs, including freelancing for the Review, editing other journalists’ work, babysitting and selling eyeglasses at random New York fairs. I was making the most money from babysitting. And I was embarrassed about this. I was twenty-five, with a masters in journalism and I was only able to pay rent because I made $450 a week taking care of a precocious third grader. In retrospect, this was a silly way to feel. Too many people starting out in journalism spend too much time thinking about what others are doing or what they might be thinking about them. I wish I could have told myself: Natasha, the others aren’t even thinking about you.
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