The brief but educational time I earned £60,000 to edit a national newspaper

I went from working for myself to suddenly managing 24 people as a department head.

I got the call just after I arrived at JFK, New York, following a red-eye flight from Arizona, where I’d explored 600 miles of Route 66 for a freelance travel commission. For the previous two and a half years, I’d managed to make a livelihood in the precariousness of a freelance journalism market. Shift work, commissions after relentless pitching, rogue opportunities like being a film extra (coming to a screen in 2025??), teaching, and other unstable zero-hour gigs – I’d done it all.

The call was to discuss the interview I’d done the day before I left for America – an interview I had since forgotten about and assumed would soon join the sky-high pile of rejections I’d come to expect. As my weary eyes scanned the luggage carousel for my pink Beis bag, the recruiter on the WhatsApp call told me straight up that they wanted to offer me the job. It was 7am, and I’d just spent five hours strapped into the middle seat of a shaky Spirit Airlines flight – my attention was shot. “You’re kidding me,” was my first response. How could this executive position at a seven-day national newspaper just land in my lap like that, after a single interview? Previously, I’d been through multiple stages, unpaid editing tests that took anywhere from 90 minutes to four hours (unpaid, of course), and countless interviews even for freelance gigs. This, I reasoned, could only be the fulfilment of my Tahajjud prayers. A gift from my Lord. Alhamdulillah.

But, as the Tolkien quote goes, not all that is gold glitters. What looked like a dua come true turned out to be a well-paid life lesson. On the call, the recruiter offered £50,000 pro rata for the role – but even in my sleep-deprived state, I knew I was being lowballed. This was for a national newspaper where I was to lead a growing team of 24 people (by the time I signed my contract, my role had expanded to include magazine features, which had merged with the paper). For my interview, I’d been sent an organisational chart, so I knew exactly how many Features desks I’d be heading up – and £50k didn’t feel like adequate compensation. Luckily, I had a trusted confidant in the industry who knew I could ask for more. “Shoot for £80k,” she said. “Or at least £70k.” Before I had the chance to make my case, the recruiter called me back a few days later, offering £60k for the first six months, rising to £65k thereafter. Reader, I would have settled for £45k. But Alhamdulillah, again.

I know that in other industries, a head of department role would come with a much bigger pay cheque, but after years of scraping by on £600–800 a month, this felt like winning the lottery. When I arrived at my cousin’s apartment in Queens after the call, I could barely nap through my jet lag – I was so excited. I offered a shukran prayer and thought of my incoming new life.

I signed the contract a few weeks after I returned from the US, setting my start date two months later as I had other shifts and a press trip to Japan already booked. In that time, I started worrying less about expenses. I bought better-quality versions of things I needed and wanted, and made a list of what I’d buy for my parents, siblings, and friends with my new salary. I even bought extra virgin olive oil – a luxury I’d denied myself during my years of living paycheque to paycheque as a freelancer. There’s a delicious freedom in the weeks before starting a new job, cushioned by the security of upcoming earnings.

But a few weeks into this prestigious role, I realised money can only motivate you so much. Just a few months later, I stepped down. No more extra virgin olive oil for me.

The first time I thought about quitting was three weeks in, after what I texted my friends was “the worst day of my career”. I won’t get into specifics – reliving that time feels, for lack of a better word, triggering. Also, journalism can be a toxic, spiteful place, and being too candid might cut me off from future opportunities (if I haven’t already). In earlier drafts of this post, I had detailed the specific incidents that drove me out, but I’ve realised that – bar a few of my loved ones – most people reading this are strangers who don’t need to be privy to the private details of my life.

I will share that this was an educational time for me. I learned that you can’t ignore how your body reacts to toxicity. I couldn’t escape the nausea I felt in the mornings while waiting for the lift to the office. I lost a bunch of weight in a short time because, for the first time in my life, I’d lost my appetite. I struggled to be present with loved ones. My sister once asked me why I would suddenly go non-verbal mid-conversation. I was thinking about work all the time. My friends had organised a sleepover (adult sleepovers are healing, trust me), something I’d looked forward to for months – only to be delayed by work that evening. I cried in the Uber on the way to her house. We ended up still eating dinner at 11:45pm. Nothing is worth missing out on the rare quality times you get with the people you love.

What they don’t teach you in management training (of which I received very little) is that when you’re in charge of people, you’re really in charge of their emotions – all while having to regulate your own while liaising between senior and junior colleagues. I learned that by virtue of being someone’s boss, some people will resent you – and workplace dissatisfaction may cause them to act up. That the nature of work under capitalism is tedious, laborious and unsatisfying, mostly benefiting the employer over the employee - even the jobs that are ‘fun’. That jobs are also just made up. Things are the way they are become some people at some time decided to make it so.

I’m not an idealist, nor am I wealthy. I know that in a scarce industry like journalism, sometimes you have to grit your teeth through unpleasant experiences – for the pay, for the reputation, for career longevity. I could have, and late at night in bed think I should have stayed – but at what cost? My mental health? My physical health? My relationships? Still, it was refreshing not to worry about money for the first time. To be able to throw things into my shopping basket without overanalysing the price.

It might have been fleeting, but I gleaned many other lessons. First, to trust my gut – I should have done Istikhara before starting, not once the cracks had already begun to show. When I started the job, I realised I should’ve done more while I was unemployed – spent more, enjoyed the freedom more. That you don’t need to say yes to everything. That money is nice, but only you know how miserable you truly are. That you can even be tested with the very fulfilment of your du’a.

I learned that, in that job, part of me was waiting to be granted permission – to act, to decide, to lead. As a woman of colour in media, I’ve felt sidelined, underestimated, and surveilled throughout my career. I internalised those feelings. So when I was finally handed authority, I crumbled under its weight. Even making the announcement that I’d landed the job felt scary – I knew people would doubt my abilities. I’m sure they feel vindicated now.

Now that it’s all over and I’m back to freelancing – where earning even £600 a month is once again a struggle (the gigs I had lined up before I accepted the role quickly dried up) – I am happier. Poorer, but happier. And not to sound insufferable, but I’m rich in so many other ways: in quality time with my siblings, parents, and friends; in my free time, my ibadah, my hobbies. That’s what life is meant to be about. (Just with a tad bit more money.) Alhamdulillah.

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