The gig economy is an adventure—and not always a good one.

Work: Freelancing

I love being a freelance writer, I really do. But I think it might surprise people to know some of the behind-the-scenes stuff about writing. I know I certainly have had my eyes opened on more than one occasion.

Some Freelance Clients Take Longer to Pay Than Others

For instance, the number of people who think it’s acceptable to pay freelancers late is quite shocking. Some people are likely just disorganized and don’t mean anything by it. I worked with someone who runs a small marketing agency, and he habitually paid late. It was kind of built into my routine with him: I’d send the invoice. I’d do the work. Two days would go by. I’d check-in, and he’d ask me to resend the invoice. It was really not a huge deal, but it did irk me a bit. Why couldn’t he just pay me when he got my invoice?

Other publications, I’m not so sure about. It could be that they’re disorganized. Or just spiteful people, but that’s a thought I usually only have on my difficult days. Ironically, one financial-focused publication once owed me for four articles, and I had to keep hounding them for payment. They seriously didn’t even respond to my emails for a while there, and I had to get my editor involved. Luckily, they were just temporarily swamped and got back on track with payments.

Then, there are the writing rules. They vary with every publication, business, nonprofit and marketing agency that I’ve ever worked with. Some places have zero written rules about the style of their writing—you just sort of figure it out from existing materials, which can be a little tricky. You basically make it up as you go if the client hasn’t created any other content.

Other places are completely opposite of that. One publication I write for has 11 (and counting!) different Google Docs chock-full of pages and pages of information about their style, the words they do and don’t use, source guides and more. And, to make matters worse, they created all kinds of videos about how to use their particular content management system where we upload the articles. If there’s one thing I personally hate, it’s watching a video to get the information I need.

And honestly, it’s not worth my time to read through every single page and watch every single video. Often, they’re quite pointless. And this same publication sends out weekly emails with “tips and reminders” because they have us so bogged down with these documents and videos that freelancers overlook or forget certain details. To top it all off, the pay kind of sucks for all the work that goes into writing their articles. 

At least they don’t typically ghost me, though. And usually, the same people ghosting me are the ones who are notorious for scope creep and for late payments. Take the marketing agency guy who always paid me late, for instance. We agreed on a certain number of revisions for the writing projects I did for him, but he kept sending me tidbits and pages to rewrite. And rewrite again. And again. I lost count, actually.

And because I have poor boundaries (something I’m working on), I just did the rewrites. Sometimes, it feels easier to me to just rewrite the same stupid paragraph eight times because the client can’t articulate what he wants rather than just tell him no.

So two months after he imposed a ridiculous deadline (which I met, I might add), he asked for yet another rewrite of something for that same project, which was supposed to be finished. I thought about it carefully and even asked my business coach for some backup to make sure I was in the right. I firmly but politely said his ask was out of the project scope, but I’d be happy to do the extra edits for an additional fee. He quickly responded and said he wasn’t asking for a rewrite (he was) but that it was fine, and he didn’t need it anyway (he did).

And after I put a stop to his scope creep, he ghosted me. I even checked in with him via email because we were supposed to work on other projects. Haven’t heard a peep from him since.

Another surprising fact about freelance writing? Some of the publications I write for don’t really bother checking my work for accuracy, while others are sticklers. The publication with the crazy number of style guides and videos definitely reviews what its freelancers write and makes sure the sources are accurate and appropriate.

I suspect that a pet-focused publication I used to write for, on the other hand, just publishes whatever its writers turn in. I’d rather have an editor double-checking my work, just because I’m not perfect and I do make errors.

And I’ve written articles about products for some places without even trying the products—because the publication has affiliate links that it makes commission on. I do my due diligence, of course, in checking out reviews and whatnot. But after knowing this, it gives me great pause to just pull up an article on Google and trust it these days. Not that people are trying to deceive necessarily, just that sometimes a proofread can go a long way. Having an editor just go through and verify the product facts or reviews, for instance, adds a level of authority, in my opinion.

And then there are the publications that are just downright awful in every way. That pet-focused publication, for instance, was one of the worst to work with. At first, it was great. I sent a cold email to them asking if they needed any writers. The owner responded that they didn’t, but we ended up emailing back and forth a bit. 

After the owner found out I really am a crazy cat lady (courtesy of the literally thousands of cat photos on my phone!), she brought me on board as a writer. The pay was kind of terrible, but I was newer to freelance writing and enjoyed working with her. She rarely requested edits, was polite, respected me and my time and was basically just super easy to work with.

Then, she sold the company. The new owner was the perfect example of a client you never want to work with as a freelance writer. He threw so many red flags in a short amount of time and then, of course, continued to be a jerk the entire time I dealt with him.

For one thing, he thought he was doing me a favor by paying me shitty rates for those articles. To make matters worse, he insisted on doing a Zoom call when he knew I was out of the office. I specifically told the old and new owners that I was taking time off but would be happy to jump on a call the following week. Nope, not good enough for this guy.

I stupidly gave in, and we had a pointless (of course) call via Zoom. I stated, in no uncertain terms, again, that I was taking time off and wouldn’t be available until the following week. It felt a little over the top, but I wanted to be absolutely sure he understood that I wasn’t going to be available.

Turns out, he didn’t understand. Or, probably more accurately, he purposely ignored me.

He contacted me on vacation (the one he knew I was on) to bully me into signing a contract at the last minute. He texted me that I absolutely had to sign this stupid contract before I got back from my getaway. I tactfully declined, saying I couldn’t give it the proper attention something that important deserved.

He pushed. He told me I was the only writer who hadn’t yet signed and I’d hold up their ownership transfer if I didn’t sign that very day. I had several choice words for him, but I held back. I took time out of my planned vacation just to make his lack of planning my priority. (So maddening!)

He was another late payer who I’m pretty sure did it on purpose, just because he was an asshole on a power trip. And about two months in, he emailed me to let me know that I wasn’t being a team player and that I would be done writing for them. You better believe I gave him my thoughts before walking away—in a very professional manner, of course, unlike him.

What I’ve learned behind the scenes as a freelance writer is interesting, shocking and sometimes downright unbelievable. But I love the freedom and flexibility that comes with writing. And all those crappy clients are definitely helping me stand up for myself.

Despite dealing with ghosting, scope creep and disorganized clients, freelancing has helped me grow and stick up for myself.

A Behind-the-Scenes Look at the World of Freelance Writing

The United Kingdom has given the world some incredible things over the years: the chocolate bar, the World Wide Web and 

 football (later to become soccer, even though it is actually football.)

Another great creation to come from the land of baked beans and Piers Morgan is the British Broadcasting Corporation.

The BBC has brought us such institutions as 

, and its news coverage is respected worldwide. It has been around in one form or another since 1922, which is longer than any member of the royal family has been alive.

But, as with the royal family, parts of it are flawed. (Admittedly not as much as Andrew.)

By the End of March 2020, My Daughter Was Born and I Was Out of My Freelance Job

After a career in commercial radio, I joined the BBC as a radio reporter. I was given a BBC pass with my picture on the front and the BBC’s values on the back. I felt rather proud. After all, this was the BBC.

The BBC, like an old auntie at a family party, is lovely, but every so often, something will be said or done that reminds you they’re from another time.

On one such occasion, I was assigned to go and meet a Nigerian pastor and his wife who had opened their church to feed struggling families.

“It’s probably best not to ask them what it feels like to be poor.”

That was the advice of the station manager as I was heading out the door. Very keen to impress the BBC’s policy on representing the diverse culture of its cities but not quite getting it right.

And that is how I would sum up working inside the BBC.

In March 2020, hundreds of other happy BBC workers and I were about to lose the joy and pride that comes with being part of the people-focused Auntie Beeb.

On March 12, the British Prime Minister Boris Johnson announced, “We’ve done what can be done to contain this disease…but it is now a global pandemic. I’ve got to be clear…this is the worst public health crisis for a generation.”

At the time, I was on-air, presenting a radio show, and we had to cut away to hear the PM give an announcement.

One minute you’re playing Michael Bolton; the next you’re reaffirming a pandemic.

My daughter was two days old when the announcement was made. Eleven days later, on March 23, the U.K. went into lockdown. A few days after that, I was no longer employed by the BBC. (It was quite the fortnight!)

I had a 3-year-old son and a month-old baby daughter. I was scared.

There Was Confusion Over Whether Freelancers Would Get Paid

The U.K. government announced a furlough scheme. If you were on a payroll but couldn’t work for your employer, you could claim 80 percent of your earnings. It also announced help for the self-employed: 80 percent of your average profits up to a maximum of £7,500 for three months.

As a Pay-As-You-Earn freelancer, I, and many others, as I would find out, neither qualified for furlough nor for self-employed help. More than 3 million U.K. taxpayers fell into this category.

In April 2020, the BBC PAYE Freelancers Group was set up on Facebook to help us make sense of it all. That same month, the organizers of the group sent a letter to the then-Director General of the BBC, Lord Hall, signed by 157 PAYE freelancers (myself included). 

The following month, the DG replied, saying, “We do want to reassure you that we’re doing all we can to support the freelance community, and we have put several measures in place.”

There was a glimmer of hope being shone upon us by the DG himself. As a wave of relief washed over my anxious mind, I realized I would be able to feed my children 

And then, in June 2020, the BBC argued that as a public sector organization, it was 

Once again, my hope was now as empty as our food cupboard.

The amount of people having to claim universal credit—government benefits—in the U.K. doubled from 3 million to nearly 6 million at the start of the pandemic and only increased. I became part of those statistics. I tried to get any work elsewhere—from delivery driving to helping in a nearby farm supplies warehouse—but there was a pandemic going on, and nobody was hiring.

In July 2020—four months after the lockdown was announced—the corporation finally took steps to help the loyal PAYE freelancers it had relied upon. The Broadcasting, Entertainment, Communications and Theatre Union reported, “The BBC has now agreed that freelancers who either had no bookings or reduced bookings due to COVID-19 but who had worked with the BBC every month over the period [between] September 2019–February 2020…will receive their average earnings for the months of March, April and May 2020 (calculated over the 12 months prior to COVID) and capped at £2,500.”

I had worked from August 2017 to April 2020. I read and reread. I qualified!

I wrote an email to the Human Resources department. I didn’t hear anything. I called them. I couldn’t get through. I emailed again.

As I am writing this in January 2022, I still haven’t had a reply. I asked the Facebook group to see if they fared any better.

A now-former freelancer said they didn’t even receive an email to inform them their future bookings were being canceled. Another said they didn’t receive anything and the insistence of the BBC that they become PAYE pushed them over the qualifying threshold for the Self-Employment Income Support Scheme. One responder offered a morsel of positivity, declaring that they received a small payment; then told of how their freelance contract was canceled without any warning.

The plight of the forgotten freelancers was spreading. During the summer of 2020, someone who worked at BBC World News said in a resignation letter, “Management has undermined mine and PAYE freelancer’s dignity. We feel our concerns over furlough, our livelihoods, our health and financial security have not mattered.”

I felt that. I’d been claiming benefits, missing payments on the house, having my phone cut off and taking jobs that paid less than the minimum wage just to be able to buy food.

But despite that, in February 2021, I went back to work for the BBC.

I Still Love the BBC but Now as a Consumer, and My View of It Has Changed

In the time since that last shift, I felt ghosted. As the months had rolled on, I began to doubt my own ability, whether I was thought capable by colleagues or even liked. Such were the tricks my mind played over that time. So when I was asked back, it was validation.

I returned with steady, if not flowing work as the country got back to normal. Then, in August 2021, still a BBC PAYE freelancer, I was asked if I would like to book more work: four shifts in the next four months.

It felt all too familiar. The uncertainty, the lack of loyalty that fellow Facebook group users had experienced. It wasn’t a good way to live for my mental health. (I’d been put back on antidepressants during the pandemic too.)

Life is good now. My family and friends are healthy, and my debts are pretty much paid off, thanks to becoming a self-employed writer and podcast producer. I am one of the very lucky ones.

I still love the BBC. The people who make it work day-to-day are passionate and brilliant. I loved working with them.

But now I sit with my dignity and admire from the outside.

I particularly enjoy watching Match of the Day on Saturday nights, which shows all that day’s football. Actual football, that is.

From sudden termination to mixed messaging about receiving payment, the BBC’s treatment of its workers in 2020 left us scrambling to make ends meet. 

The BBC Forgot About Its Freelancers During the Pandemic

The freelance world doesn’t care much for morals. In the five years I’ve worked, there’s only ever been one rule: The Site gets its cut. It’s a lot like having a pimp. You find the Johns, you do the work and when there isn’t any? Well, it’s your ass freezing on the street corner. With a little skill and a lot of patience, you’ll land a job. Then, the real work begins. You do your best to please the client, to be fun and exciting. You try not to take it personally when they stiff you on the payment. You tell yourself, it’s OK. They had fun; that means they’ll come back. Then, as you lay there, exhausted, questioning your life choices, that’s when the Site comes in and collects their 20 percent. Those are the good days. On the bad days, you just lay there, poor, hungry, wishing it would happen.

I did try to justify the Site. After all, they provided the opportunity, or at least gave you a place to talk. Then, the Site started charging for the right to apply for jobs. Now I’m thinking, what about the hungry artist, the guy with a big dream but no money? It makes me sad, but then, I think, how long before the snake realizes that it’s eating its own tail?

That being said, freelancing was a good way to begin. I had no idea what kind of writer I was. I wanted to do everything but lacked the connections and experience to go straight into publishing. I decided to give it a chance. After all, what did I have to lose?

I’ve Had to Stand Up for Myself So I Could Get Paid

One week in, I got my first job. They offered me $200 to write for a video game. They started me on concepts for faster-than-light travel. So, I raced off to the local coffee shop, pad and paper in hand, and I scribbled away. I was so happy—one week in and I’d already made it.

Two weeks went by, and I sent all the best ideas to my boss. They liked the work but wanted to make a few changes, the first being we were no longer making a video game. No, now it was all about cards. I remember thinking, cards aren’t as cool as video games. Still, I would fantasize about conventions where people would sit around, playing my cards, and I got excited.

I worked on the project for about a month, which was the agreed time for payment. I was new to all this. I didn’t negotiate word count or hours. I spent all day, every day, writing this project. I felt like a real artist. Then, I reached out and asked for payment. The client responded with confusion. Why would they pay me? Well, I pointed to the deal, to the deadline and the agreed amount. Then, the client said, oh, yeah. Well, don’t worry about it. Just keep going.

They loved the work; they just didn’t want to pay for it. It felt like having a friend turn on you. I was heartbroken, but in that moment, I responded in a way I’d never done before. I told them, no, I’m not going to worry because if you don’t pay me right now, then I’m going straight to the Site and together, we’re going to figure out how to sue you.

They paid me what was owed, and I came away feeling like I’d learned how to stand up for myself. I offered to continue working for the client. They said something about delays and promised they’d get back to me. That was five years ago.

Now, it’s not my intention to say that every client is going to rip you off. The truth is, everyone’s looking for a good deal. It's those people who'll share the goodness—those are the ones worth working with.

I’ve Had Some Truly Enlightening Experiences With Clients

I worked with this one guy—we'll call him Pea. He'd spent his life evading the FBI as he ran guns across America. He'd recently made contact with his estranged son and wanted to prove that he was, if not a good man, at least not all bad. Pea had married into prominent Nazi family on the East Coast, and my job was to write the memoir. Above all, he wanted to show how much we have in common once we move past the politics.

The man's life was a long history of violence and racism. In many ways, he was the quintessential Nazi our mothers warned us about. But then again, Pea treated me with more humanity than any other client I've had in the last five years.

He knows my lefty views and the fact that I'm in an interracial relationship. He told me it didn't matter. He didn't care what I believed in, only that I stood by them, no matter how painful it got.

Pea always pays. He even got into an argument with me when I refused to accept payment for our calls. The way he saw it, work was work. He taught me to not sell myself short and to stand up for my rights. Somewhere along the way, we became friends. We'd go off topic, laughing till both of us were in tears.

If it wasn't for freelancing, I'd have never met someone like Pea. I wouldn't have had so many opportunities to grow. Our last call ended with him telling me about his Brazilian girlfriend. I asked, how does that work, being a Nazi? He told me that it doesn't. That's why it's a secret. He told me how much he loved his family, that he would die for them. Then, he explained what they'd do if they ever found out about his secret.

I'd like to sit here and warn people that there's nothing good about the freelance world. Truth is, I love it. I get to interview all kinds of people. I see a side of humanity that's often hidden out of fear of judgment. I listen to their worries and share in their dreams.

I don’t know what the future of freelancing will be.

I don’t think the Site can survive if it continues on this path. This means that people like me will have to find new ways to start, but for anyone looking to go down the less conventional paths, I'll say this: You’re not always going to be happy. There were times I wanted to give up. I had bad clients with worse money. It's not for the faint of heart, and you'll make no progress with tears alone. It's a hard life, but I'll say this: If it really was that easy, would you still want it? If everyone could do it, what would make you stay?

Working as a freelancer has taught me about negotiating, setting boundaries and advocating for myself.

Freelance Writing Is Still the Wild West

The thing about climate? It’s literally everywhere. Our writers share their observations.

Environment: Climate Change

Despite ingesting the United Nations’ unbearable hypocrisy and nauseating doom-and-gloom propaganda, traveling to exotic locations around the world to cover its climate conferences as an accredited journalist has been among the most amusing experiences of my life. It’s difficult to put into words for somebody who has never seen it.

But the comic absurdity of it all is wild. It turns out, for instance, that saving the world from the evils of alleged man-made global warming—supposedly a result of that dangerous toxic pollutant exhaled by every living person on the planet (CO2)—is a never-ending quest. And ironically, it takes endless tons of CO2 emissions to accomplish.

Thus, every single year, tens of thousands of bureaucrats, diplomats, cheerleaders (they prefer to be called “journalists”) and tax-funded rent-a-mobs converge at the taxpayers’ expense somewhere to feast on gourmet meals and party. Almost all of them fly in on CO2-spewing airplanes, including hundreds or even thousands of private jets. I’ve seen it with my own eyes!

For some reason, the would-be saviors of Mother Earth never choose to do their heroic work from Lagos, Nigeria, Jakarta, Indonesia, or even Detroit, Michigan. Apparently, the climate gods can only be appeased from beautiful vacation destinations like Rio de Janeiro, Cancun, Sharm el-Sheikh, Paris and more. That suits me just fine, of course!

You think I’m kidding about the gods. I’m not. In Cancun, the head of the summit, Christiana Figueres, opened with a prayer to Ixchel, the supposed Mayan goddess of tapestries and creativity. Upon hearing the prayer, I whipped out my laptop to learn more. Ixchel, it turned out, was also a Mayan goddess of war and human sacrifice. Oops!

It was very appropriate, though, considering that the poor people of the world were being sacrificed on the altar of the climate gods in the war on prosperity and common sense. How dare they emit CO2 by having electricity or a vehicle! At least, that’s the attitude of the legions of hypocrites who take a break from their yachts and mega mansions to fly in on private jets.

“Let them drive Teslas,” the climate cabal says, oblivious to the cruelty of it all.

Climate Leaders Can't Tell They're Being Pranked

Despite U.N. and government efforts to silence, intimidate and sideline the opposition, there are always some pranksters who make the summits even more amusing—at least for those with a sense of humor. One year, for example, a group of young American activists 

 an endless parade of attendees to sign a petition banning a dangerous chemical known as dihydrogen monoxide—a substance associated with such evils as acid rain, drownings and even storms. Virtually everybody signed the petition, thinking they were saving humanity from some new demon molecule. Boy, did they feel stupid when they found out the petition was really supporting a ban on water! Yes, water. Good thing these people aren’t making global policy…oh wait!

Another year, this time in Qatar, a hilarious and brilliant British lord who has long been battling the climate alarmists impersonated a Burmese delegate. He snuck into the plenary session where diplomats were plotting how to save the world, and hilarity ensued. Lord Monckton 

 before they finally cut his mic. “Sorry, the last speaker is not a party,” the president of the summit said. Watching a British lord pretend to be a delegate to drop truth bombs on the climate summit and harangue the delegation was quite the spectacle.

Some years before that, in Copenhagen, journalist and filmmaker Phelim McAleer put on a polar bear suit and went around with a megaphone at the UN COP 15 summit looking for Phil Jones, the disgraced scientist at the center of the Climategate scandal. Watching the delegates flee and boo was too funny.

Later this year, I’ll be heading for Sharm el-Sheikh, Egypt, a beautiful Red Sea resort town on the Sinai Peninsula, to again expose these pretend world saviors as they devour taxpayer money living the good life. One thing I can tell you for sure: There will be a 

 of hot air and plenty of fun in the sun. Hold on to your wallet.

 I’ve been to plenty of U.N. climate conferences as a journalist. It’s time to call out their propaganda. 

The Glaring Hypocrisy of Climate Alarmists

Over the summer, my mother eagerly sat me down to watch 

, a documentary on the famous Los Angeles neighborhood during the golden age of rock music. Rather than sink into the hypnotizing romance of the '60s and '70s, I found myself growing increasingly bitter, my body curling into itself like a lemon peel left out to dry. My mother looked over at me, confused, wondering why my eyes welled up with angry tears when Joni Mitchell sweetly planted a kiss on Graham Nash.

As a child, I used to laugh at history books: 

Why would you treat your patients with leeches? That’s so stupid!

 Grateful to exist at the same time as the microwave, penicillin and Nintendo Wii, I was convinced that modern people simply had it better. As I watched these young people onscreen create era-defining music so freely, without the vein-bulging grip of late-stage capitalism and looming imminence of climate change, I was suddenly overwhelmed with how hellacious it is to live in the beginning of the end of the Anthropocene.

Born on the Precipice of the Climate Crisis

I arrived on this planet just in time to get accustomed to its green trees and blue skies, but late enough to understand that I will likely live to see Laurel Canyon swallowed up by the ocean, after uncontrollable wildfires raze it to the ground. Life as we know it will die, and a majority of today’s people are likely to die alongside it. And it’s already begun.

For a while, I’ve tried to combat my fears and worries and anxieties and anger by prudently stoking the embers of what little optimism I had left. But with every “hottest year on record” you read about, year after year, you get more completely overcome with the intense desire to tear your hair out of your head, follicle by follicle, as corporations responsible for most of the irreversible changes to climate harp on about the importance of reusable water bottles.

To say that no progress is being made is to discredit the thousands of researchers, scientists and activists all over the world that work tirelessly every day to implement change. However, the systemic upheaval that needs to happen in order to drastically change the fate of our world feels less and less like an attainable reality. Despair mutates into a sickly refuge, both cocoon and prison alike, enveloping everything like a dark shroud. When all you are left with is the crippling sense of inescapable doom, the only thing left to do is to make peace with it.

Perhaps it was the communal grief that emerged from the COVID-19 pandemic, or my own personal grief from losing two important family members last year, or, even more likely, a combination of the two, from which my growing acceptance of the environment’s death stemmed from. From funeral to funeral, I was confronted with my own mortality, my personal inescapable doom. The fear used to creep up on me out of nowhere, spoiling pleasant afternoons that manifested itself as a deep pit in my stomach and made my blood run cold.

For better or for worse, one of the main lessons I’ve taken away from the grieving process is that life goes on. Life becomes different, and it will never go back to what it once was, but it goes on. As I had more time to think on the matter, thanks to quarantine, I realized how my fear of climate change was fundamentally the same as my fear of death. Just as I had to let go of my family members and even myself, I had to let go of the world. But letting go of the world is a daunting task when there are so many lives to be lost. It’s a form of meditation—the practice of giving up worldly possessions, of giving up the world as a possession.

There are billions of years of evidence that show how, inexplicably, life continues. We are the progeny of a rich history of mass extinction events, descended from the fiery meteor that wiped out the dinosaurs as well as the ice ages that froze the planet over. Millions of years after our passing a new, unrecognizable kind of life will emerge and thrive. My death is an extension of evolution, and proof of the ever-continuing cycle of life.

However, just because something ends does not mean that its own existence ceases to matter. Yes, the future looks bleak, but that cannot deter us from fighting for a better world. As long as there are people around, there is compassion. Poorer regions will be disproportionately more affected by environmental degradation, and climate justice is an essential tool to ease global suffering.

If my fear of my own passing is fundamentally the same as my fear of environmental collapse, then the earth is a body. Like any other living creature, it will try to live as long as possible, despite the indomitable imminence of death. There’s a mysterious force in all of us—some call it survival—that ensures that we all take our vitamins and exercise. It’s why we still fight climate change, even as we inch closer and closer to our bleak and unremarkable end.

Death is not a case for inaction, but a resounding endorsement of action, as finality drives change. Fulfillment isn’t necessarily achieving everything you wanted to achieve in life, but rather the comfort of knowing that you did everything in your power to change the world for the better, regardless of outcome. Death provides urgency and meaning to all of our actions. How will we spend our last generations on Earth? Only time can tell.

What it's like to grow up at the end of life as we know it.

I'm Coming to Terms With the Climate Catastrophe

My parents have lived in Sonoma County, California, since 2015, and have nearly lost their home—and their lives—to wildfires multiple times.

The closest they came to total devastation was in October of 2017, when the Tubbs fire scorched much of the region. Around 2 a.m., they were awakened by a firefighter banging at their front door, telling them they had minutes to leave before flames arrived. They fled with the few belongings they could toss into bags, grabbed the family dog—abandoned their elderly cat, Ally—and sped down their two-lane road to safety as flames chased them from behind. Many of their neighbors had their homes decimated. My parents were lucky to escape alive.

“God, I hope our property values don’t plummet,” my mom told me over the phone, her voice quivering. “That house is supposed to be part of our retirement.”

There was no mention of the family cat left behind, nor of the traumatic near-death experience the night before. The fear, it seemed, was not of losing a home—a place of safety and security and shelter—but of losing capital.

“What about Ally?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

“Oh, she’s fine. The firefighters told us they fed her. And if the house burns down, we’ll get the insurance money. It’s worth more than the house.”

Wildfires Have Always Been an Issue in California

California has always been a region prone to wildfires—the wildfire season is a predictable affair from May to October. Growing up in Marin County (just across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco) in the 1990s and early 2000s, I knew that fires came annually, in the same way I knew baseball season began in April and ended in October, or mosquitoes arrived with the warming of spring.

I remember being eight years old watching the local news with my family at a Mexican restaurant as a brushfire engulfed Jefferson Airplane singer Grace Slick’s hillside home above Mill Valley. There was no hint of terror in the room. A few heads turned toward the flames on the grainy screen between mouthfuls of enchiladas and molé. It was almost a banal concern; a social obligation to look up and nod, feign compassion, and then return to our food. A mariachi band sang “Sabor a Mi” to a middle-aged couple holding hands under the table, and the news transitioned to box score of the game that day: Giants 1, Reds 0.

“God, I hope her house is okay,” someone said at a table across from us. The collective “mmm” and “mhmm’s” chorused momentarily before everyone returned to their food. Grace, it seemed, was of no concern.

Moving Is a Last-Ditch Effort to Avoid an Insecure Climate

“I think it’s time for us to finally get out of here,” Mom told me over the phone in August of 2020. “The sky is covered in ash, and we can’t go outside. It’s time to move to Idaho. Somewhere in the mountains. It will be calmer there. These fires are too intense.”

“Mom,” I said, “You know that climate change isn’t state-by-state. You’ll have to deal with it wherever you move.”

“We just want to make sure we can retire and not have to work until we’re 80,” she replied.

California’s fire season is now year-round

rapidly dropping homeowners who live in regions threatened by wildfires,

 upper-middle-class folks like my parents keep thinking they can skip to a new town, a new region, to escape the ravages of climate change. There’s little to no attention paid to the circumstances causing these fires or these devastating weather patterns. Moving becomes a sort of class-divided gamble, a last-ditch effort to maintain a sense of security in an increasingly insecure climate.

 sparked by the COVID-19 pandemic, from Los Angeles to Boise to Santa Fe, due to historically low housing availability and an increase in remote work. But this migratory flood out of places like California and New York was already well underway years ago. My parents exist in the rare echelon of Americans who, within an era of tremendous inequality, actually have options. They can plan their mobility, while the cities and small towns currently being flipped by ravenous real estate prospectors get turned upside down.

It’s easy to blame the individuals gobbling up cheap housing like Pac-Man, but doing so overlooks the system (capitalism), which encourages and downright praises this Wild West mentality of consumption. When out-of-towners buy up small-town properties, local sellers see dollar signs and follow trends. Landlords see the market adjust and think, pragmatically, that it’s time to raise their rents, too. There’s little accountability for simply saying “that’s enough money for me.” The emphasis is almost always on property, not the ecology of the land they are living on. The result? Housing prices soar. Rents skyrocket. Homelessness increases. Inequality widens.

I try to explain this messaging—that following the quick fix patterns of cheap housing in new locations doesn’t change anything—to my parents, but it doesn’t stick. Their eyes are on dollar signs, on self-preservation, not on whether local water reservoirs are being depleted by a golf course development or how 

temperature increase is causing tick-born illnesses

There isn’t a collective approach, just an individual one. It’s part of the American ethos. It makes me wonder sometimes if, all those years ago, watching Grace Slick’s home burn down to the char, I should have stood up on that table and shouted. Screamed. Perhaps if I’d quieted the room enough—if the guitarists had ceased their strumming—we all would have looked up and seen that one celebrity’s devastation was actually our own. Perhaps we would’ve seen it as a warning, an omen of a not-so-distant future where skies would be blackened by ash, where emergency kits sat by the door year-round.

And yet, despite all this, dinner chatter remained the fluctuating voodoo of home prices. I’d have flipped the table, if I could. I’d have shattered glasses and tossed plates. 

Moving away from environmental disaster is a quick fix to a long-term and collective issue.

Climate Change Is Everywhere—No Matter Where You Move

Our writers share the reality of living with chronic illness. Spoiler alert: It's different for everyone. 

Health: Chronic Sickness

“She’s got the lungs of a cystic fibrosis patient,” said the doctor. He had come to see me following the bronchoscopy, holding his phone so I could scan the photos as he scrolled, revealing different angles of my daughter’s mucus-filled lungs.

“Even her vocal cords are clogged,” he added. “That’s one strong kid. I don’t know how she’s still functioning with that mess in there.”

“She’s been to an ear, nose and throat specialist already. Should we try again?”

“It couldn’t hurt,” he said. “Maybe someone should take another look at those cords.”

What light there was went out of his eyes. We’d had this discussion before, and bringing it up again risked losing the limp remains of goodwill between us. He picked up what seemed to be the chorus of our little play: 

It doesn’t matter why her lungs are the way they are because the treatment would be the same anyhow

. This made no sense to me, but it had become an effective silencer.

“I know it’s tough,” he said. “I wouldn’t be you for anything.”

My Daughter's Health Began to Quickly Deteriorate

My husband and I have three children. Each was given the sweat test for abnormally high chloride levels, an indicator of CF. All passed, meaning they most likely didn’t have the disease. In 2012, we learned for certain that my husband, whose half-sister died 30 years ago from CF, carries the most common cystic fibrosis transmembrane conductance regulator (CFTR) mutation: deltaF508. But we weren’t planning for more children, so our main concern was having our kids screened for the mutation before they had little ones of their own.

Since the age of 4, our youngest has had a chronic cough. Over the years, she’s been diagnosed by a variety of specialists with asthma (for decreased lung function, chronic cold and cough); rhinitis (when lung function improved but the cough persisted); Tourette syndrome and comorbid obsessive-compulsive disorder (when she couldn’t stop coughing and pounding her chest until she was boxing-ring bruised); and “really bad” asthma (for the pneumonia and whooping cough that kept her ill for months). By age 13, her health began to decline at a terrifying pace.

My husband and I read relevant research papers and discovered there are approximately 2,000 known CFTR mutations, and some of them quite rare. On multiple occasions, we asked the doctor to do genetic testing. He insisted that, having passed the sweat test, our daughter couldn’t possibly have CF.

We Needed to Find a Cystic Fibrosis Specialist

One day, in front of my daughter, the doctor told me he believed her cough was psychological in origin and that if she didn’t start gaining weight, he would refer her to an eating disorder clinic. “You’re an anxious mother," he added, "and I think you make her tense.” When she was nearing her 18th birthday, we parted ways with the doctor. It was time for an adult specialist.

The new doctor was kind and well-mannered. His nails were buffed and he wore a crisp suit. He had my daughter’s latest chest X-ray ready to go on our first meeting, and he spoke to her as though she was worthy of his time and attention. He told us the diagnosis was bronchiectasis—meaning fibrosis, or scarring of the lungs—of unknown origin. His next youngest, similar patient was 65 years old.

I asked if the scarring could be reversed. There were a few moments of silence. Eventually, the doctor shook his head. “I’m afraid not, though I suppose anything’s possible.” He had come out of paternity leave to see us. He retreated again, though we didn’t know it until I called his receptionist in a panic.

“The doctor will be back in a few weeks,” she said. “He can see you then.”

“Are you kidding me?” I used a phrase normally reserved for minor altercations with family members. “But she needs antibiotics every few weeks. She spends more time in bed some days than out of it.”

The receptionist didn’t sound surprised. “I’ll get in touch with him right away," she said. "Call me back if you don’t hear from him soon.” What we didn’t yet know was that this doctor was troubled by the case and had been consulting a CF specialist. My daughter consumed another course of antibiotics, eventually landing on her feet again. A phone call came out of the blue. The CF specialist wanted to see us.

Within minutes of meeting with the CF specialist for the first time, I began to relax. He was knowledgeable and affable. I tried to tell the story, to get the details right about what my daughter had been through for years. He listened, nodding now and again. Then he comforted me. “You’re not alone anymore," he said. "I’ve got this.”

I sobbed with relief. My daughter rolled her eyes.

My Daughter Finally Received the Diagnosis We Had Feared and Expected

He was prepared that first day to do genetic testing. Blood was drawn. When the results came back a few weeks later, he gave them over speakerphone so we wouldn’t have to wait longer than necessary. Our daughter had heterozygous cystic fibrosis, with one of her mutations being extremely rare. Few people in the world have her type of CF, but it can be revealed through what has become routine genetic testing.

Cystic fibrosis is one of the most common and fatal genetic diseases in the world. Though we were grateful to know the truth and to have a compassionate, competent care team in place, we knew a cure wasn’t around the corner. There are miracle drugs in existence, but they cost hundreds of thousands of dollars per year, and Trikafta, the queen of them all, had yet to be approved by Health Canada.

We set aside a countertop in our home for our daughter’s daily therapies. (Aspirational plans for a zero-waste household were now a bitter joke.) Stacks of Kleenex boxes maintained company with the throwaway wheatgrass bowls for collecting coughed-up mucus. A compressor and nebulizer system aerosolized the various medicines that lubricate the lungs and give our daughter a decent chance of bringing up the viscous goo. We purchased breathing exercise devices and a massage machine to give us a break from drumming on her back.

My daughter gained weight. She found articles on the future of gene editing. Together we watched the silliest episodes of 

 on YouTube to pass the time. One day, she no longer wanted my company. She researched therapies that could be done independently.

I contacted our local representative, the premier and the minister of health by telephone and by mail. I was polite, and so were they. The cost of rare-disease drugs is high. But so is the price of hospital stays and antibiotics and therapies and other medications. And the medical research itself. Though the value of a human life is incalculable, I was compelled to communicate why CF patients like my daughter should be saved. It was hard not to feel as though I was begging for her life.

Thanks to the Canadian Government's Funding, We Have Hope

Then, a miracle happened. At 3:07 p.m. on Friday, September 24, 2021, we received an email from Cystic Fibrosis Canada. Saskatchewan, Alberta and Ontario—three provinces with fiscally conservative governments—announced they would publicly fund Trikafta. A large percentage of the CF population of Canada was gifted with enhanced health and extended life overnight. Quebec soon followed, as did British Columbia. Eventually, the rest of the nation joined in.

One day, our first doctor called to apologize. “I’ve learned my lesson,” he said. “You can never ignore a chronic cough. And genetic testing shouldn’t be resisted.” I suspect, though I will never know for sure, that someone reprimanded him for the years that could have been spent preventing more scarring of my daughter’s lungs.

I fought the urge to reply, “No shit, Sherlock.”

Instead, I offered understanding, ending the conversation with a simple, “Thank you for calling. But we’ve got this now.”

The journey to find the right doctor was almost as bad as my daughter’s fatal disease diagnosis.

What It's Like to Live With My Daughter's Cystic Fibrosis 

In the chaotic run-up to Christmas, when holiday, work, family, food and obligations collided with a pandemic, I started getting urinary tract infection symptoms. You basically want to go pee all the time. There’s no relief. It’s constant discomfort.

But it’s no big deal, I thought. Nothing that some antibiotics can’t sort out.

The first cycle of drugs didn’t work—it happens—but neither did the second. The doctors ordered some tests, which gave no clue as to why I had those symptoms. And oddly, the more my bodily fluids tested negative for infections, diseases and cancers, the more worried I got.

There were many calls to the doctors, all of which I had to initiate. One theorized I had something called interstitial cystitis. I wasn’t too worried when I heard this. I figured it was just another type of cystitis that would just need different drugs.

It wasn’t until a few days later when I casually Googled the condition that my heart sank, my chest began to hurt and panic set in. “No treatment,” I read. “Learn to manage the pain…symptoms worsen…etc.” Merry fucking Christmas.

Despite a host of bad days, the Christmas period was wonderfully distracting, but the biggest comedown of all soon came. January cooled the warmth of the holiday season that had enveloped me and made me think things might just be alright.

You’d think my doctors would check in on me, as they had just diagnosed me with a potentially lifelong, chronic, painful and incurable condition, but I didn’t hear from them. I started finding my own road map out of this unfolding nightmare and looked for practitioners that may have successfully worked with this condition.

I started working with a nutritionist, which led me to a pelvic physiotherapist and that led to an expert urogynecologist, all of which culminated in expensive visits, supplements and tests. Thank god for credit cards.

The cost of healing, or even just embarking on that hopeful road towards it, is high, even in a country with free national health care. But health care systems are no good when your symptoms deviate from the textbooks—doctors want to follow protocol and tick boxes. They’ll cram you into a mold. Sometimes, they cram you so hard into that mold that they say things like, “But you’re fine! There’s nothing wrong with you. Go enjoy life!”

My constant pain has confused my doctors and left me feeling isolated.