I handed him a formal letter of resignation from my “volunteer internship.”
I didn’t scream, and I didn’t throw a tantrum. I simply gathered every single asset—the raw audio files, the half-finished logos, the social media templates, and the chaotic spreadsheet of potential guests—and dumped them onto a single USB drive. I walked into the living room while he was playing video games, placed the drive on the coffee table, and said, “You’re absolutely right. I’m just your girlfriend, not an employee. I realized I’ve been overstepping my boundaries by doing professional work for free. I want to respect your vision, so from now on, I’m going to focus strictly on being your girlfriend. This drive has everything you need to run your show.”
He looked confused and asked if I had finished the edit for the episode that was supposed to go up the next day—the one with the sponsor read. I smiled and said, “Oh, no. Since I’m not an employee, I didn’t want to get in the way of your business. I’m sure you can handle the editing; it’s your show, after all.” Then I left to go get a manicure.
The panic didn’t set in immediately, but about three hours later, my phone started blowing up. He realized he didn’t know how to use the editing software to remove the background hiss. He didn’t know the password to the hosting platform. He didn’t know what font I used for the thumbnails. He was spiraling. He texted me, “Babe, come on, stop being petty. I need this up by tomorrow for the sponsor.”
I texted back: “I’m not being petty, I’m knowing my place! I believe in you!”
He stayed up until 4:00 AM trying to edit it himself. The episode went up late, the audio sounded like he recorded it inside a tin can during a hurricane, and the “graphic” was just a blurry screenshot. The comments were brutal. The best part? The sponsor noticed. They emailed him saying the ad read wasn’t clear and the production quality violated the terms of the agreement for the payout.
He came to me the next evening, looking exhausted and humbled, and asked if I could “please just fix it.” I handed him a printed sheet of paper I’d prepared: a standard freelance consulting contract. I listed my services—audio engineering, graphic design, social media management—at current market rates. The total came to roughly $65 an hour.
“If you want an employee,” I told him, “you have to hire one. If you want a girlfriend, I’m right here to support you emotionally. But my labor isn’t free anymore.” He ended up having to use that $2,000 sponsorship money not to pay himself, but to pay me my back wages just to save the contract. We’re still talking about the future of the relationship, but one thing is for sure: I never touched a mouse or a keyboard for him for free ever again.
