Tag Archives: stress

You know what’s crazy?

How you can do the right thing—and still get punished for it.

Yesterday, I had to work with the guy I reported to HR. He watched me walk in like nothing happened. I kept my head up, walked right past him like he didn’t exist. But I felt sick to my stomach the whole time.

What blows my mind is that another girl once said we didn’t get along, and they changed her entire schedule. But me? I report someone for crossing a boundary—and I’m still scheduled to work with him.

Make it make sense.

HR told me it was my fault because I gave him my phone. Mind you, he offered to help me. I thought he was being kind. But now I’m being told I should’ve known he was trying to go through my gallery?

So let me get this straight: if I leave work at 2AM and get attacked, that’s my fault too? Because I should’ve prepared for it?

Is it ever the attacker’s fault—or always the victim’s?

I’m not trying to play victim here. I’m trying to handle this like an adult. But this whole situation is absurd. I’m losing work hours now because they’re trying to schedule me around him—the one who violated my trust.

And just to flex, he removed me from the bartender group chat. No explanation. Just a silent reminder that he still has power over me.

This is exactly why women don’t speak up.

Because when we do, we’re met with silence, side-eyes, or worse—retaliation. This story is older than time. Women speak up, and the system tells us to be quiet, to move on, to “watch who we trust.”

But if I was someone’s daughter—his daughter—would this be okay?

Or is it only “my fault” because I’m just another outsider, another “girl who should’ve known better”?

Let’s talk about what “should’ve known better” really means.

Should I have known that a man offering help had ulterior motives? Should I have known that handing over my phone meant he’d invade my privacy? Should I have known that by trusting someone, I was “asking for it”?

Using their logic, would it be my fault if I got raped? Because my shirt was too short? Because I bent over to pick something up? Because I have a vagina?

This is what it looks like when a company protects its image instead of its people.

I spoke up. And REGAL CINEMAS retaliated.

Not the man who violated my boundaries. Me.

The same company that constantly brags about “valuing employees,” “supporting safety,” and “fostering community.” The same company that now wants to focus on me having my phone out—a rule no one enforces.

Even my boss said, “I don’t know why they’re focusing on that. Everyone is on their phone from time to time.” Then he turned around and called me “sista.” Like we’re good.

No. We’re not good.

You didn’t have my back. And now I’ve lost hours I need to survive. I have bills. I have responsibilities. I have a right to feel safe at work.

Instead, I feel exposed. Violated. Silenced.

All because I told the truth.

Now what am I supposed to do?

Continue working there? For men who don’t give a damn about me?

I don’t start my new job until the end of next month.

So do I stay?

Do I keep showing up to a place that’s shown me I don’t matter?

Do I endure the ache of uncertainty, the discomfort of being unseen, unheard, unsafe?

Crazy world we’re living in.

I didn’t think this happened in the real world.

All those trainings we took I thought it was for entertainment purposes. Oh how naive I was.

I can see why women stay quiet. But silence never was my calling.

Started Off Great… Ended With Me Snatching My Damn Phone Back

Today started off like a really good day. One of those rare mornings where the sun hits just right and you’re almost fooled into thinking the good energy will last. I got up early for class—bright and early, which is already an accomplishment because I am not a morning person. I was running a little late, but I made it, sat down next to my usual partner, and was feeling okay… until the teacher decided to mix up the groups. Of course.

So I say goodbye to the person I’m most comfortable with and get placed with two people I’ve barely spoken to. Great. Side note: I used to think me and that original partner were aligned somehow, like something kept pulling us together for a reason—but now it feels like we’re being forced apart. Maybe I’m overthinking. Maybe I’m not. Who knows.

Anyway, the new group? One person was younger and hard to understand. The other constantly veered off topic like a damn podcast with no editing. And all I could think was, why couldn’t I just stay with my old partner? We actually had a rhythm.

But then the teacher assigns us a group activity—acting out different conflict styles. And suddenly, I’m back in my zone. I immediately knew I wanted to act out the competing style—you know, the one where it’s all about getting your point across with zero concern for anyone else’s feelings. Maybe it came to mind so quickly because I’ve seen that type up close and personal more times than I can count.

The teacher gives me the backstory, and I go in—I create a full script. The girl in my group, the one who gets off topic, is nervous, so I write her lines too. And guess what? The script kills. Everyone’s laughing, including me and my group, and I feel this surge of warmth. Like maybe today is gonna be one of those days where everything just aligns. Even if nobody else noticed that moment, I did.

I think there’s a guy in class who’s interested in me. I don’t know, maybe I’m imagining it—but it feels like we keep being placed near each other on accident… or not. He steals glances, speaks to me more than anyone else, and even walked me out after class. Told me about a great opportunity at a real estate office, which was actually dope.

But the thing is, he’s not really my type. He’s older, which is a plus. He was in the army—which I like. But physically? Not doing it for me. Shallow? Maybe. Honest? Definitely.

What really rubbed me wrong was when we were in class discussing the negative connotations of words in society, and this man—this man—blurts out “black.” I said excuse me?? He tried to backpedal with “oh I don’t know, I just heard that it is.” I shut that down quick. I told him that wasn’t going on the list and to forget about it.

Then he starts telling me about his culture—he’s Cuban—and for some reason assumed I could just look at him and tell. Like, no. When I asked, he literally said, “Come on, you can look at me and guess.” Nah. Then he tells me in his culture, they’re very discriminating—as if that’s something to be proud of. What even made him think that was okay to say?

Anyway. That’s the man who (unfortunately) has a crush on me.

Fast forward to later in the day—I head to work. I just had a great morning, but work always manages to humble me. First off, I applied to another job to get more hours and benefits. They finally called me back, and I went to orientation yesterday. But tell me why the next session isn’t until the end of next month. What kind of operation is that?

Still, I go into work in a good mood. But the customers? Slick. And my coworkers? Discouraging. I tell one I’m taking psychology because I’ve always been in love with the subject, and he hits me with, “You don’t need school for that. You can learn everything through experience.” Okay, philosopher. If he actually understood psychology, he’d know better.

They act like psychology only applies to counseling. Like I’m wasting my time if I’m not trying to be a therapist. But psychology is everywhere—it’s in journalism, marketing, politics, writing, society. It helps you understand what resonates with people, how behavior shifts, what people crave versus what they ignore. You learn how to read people, how to analyze. Even how to tell stories that stick.

Words matter. Words outlive us. And if mine can help even one person feel seen or understood, how is that not rooted in psychology?

But I wasn’t quick-witted today. I wasn’t expecting to have to defend myself after such a good start. And honestly? I wasn’t as assertive as I would’ve liked to be. I couldn’t think of anything clever in the moment. They planted this little seed of doubt in me—and I hate that I let it settle, even for a second.

And just when I thought the day couldn’t get more annoying, this guy from work is helping me set up my portal for the new job—because he works there too. I hand him my phone and this man says, “I saw your nudes, thanks for that.” I said give me my fucking phone, and snatched it back. Then he has the audacity to say, “Watch your mouth.”

Excuse me?

What I should’ve said was: “You bald-headed, broke, dusty, stank old man—don’t you ever in your life speak to me like I’m some little girl. Who the hell do you think you’re talking to?”

I locked my gallery. I checked that. You weren’t supposed to be browsing through my shit. You were supposed to be helping me sign up for my damn schedule. That crossed a line. Hard.

He jokes like we have this love-hate dynamic, but honestly? A lot of the guys at work sexualize me. And while, sure, it sometimes gets me free stuff, it also makes me sick. They visualize me naked, they objectify me, and I hate it.

This is the same dude that calls me a gold digger, which—boy, relax. You don’t even have gold for me to dig. He stays on my ass about not cleaning up every single night, like he doesn’t disappear from his post for hours while guests are waiting on him. And I don’t say a word.

He and his little crew talk behind my back like middle schoolers. Never about what I do right, just knitpicking the flaws. Never to my face. I had to hear I was doing something “wrong” from another manager, like they didn’t even have the guts to tell me themselves.

And don’t even get me started on the managers. Hiding in closets, on their phones, earbuds in. But I’m the problem because I didn’t mop one night? I’ve been there over two years. I know when I leave, they’ll talk about me like I didn’t do anything. Like I didn’t carry weight. Like I didn’t show up.

I’m just so over it.

I wish I could start this new job sooner and leave every one of them behind—let them rot in their little cliques, talking about everyone else, pretending like they’re better than they are. Miserable, insecure people who can’t see past their own limitations.

Let them talk.

I’ve got a vision—and they’ll never see it, because it wasn’t given to them. God gave it to me.