I remember the day we bought the first microphone. We were sitting on the floor of our tiny apartment in South London, surrounded by bubble wrap and the smell of new electronics. Callum was so excited his hands were actually shaking. He’d been talking about starting a sports history podcast for months, and I was his biggest cheerleader. I told him his voice was made for radio and that his passion for obscure 1920s football matches was exactly what the internet was missing. It felt like a team project, a “us against the world” kind of venture that would bring us closer together.
For the first few weeks, it was genuinely fun. We’d sit on the sofa with a bottle of cheap wine and brainstorm titles. I’m a graphic designer by trade, so I spent my Saturday morning creating a logo that looked professional enough to sit alongside the big-budget productions. I felt a surge of pride when I saw our artwork pop up on Spotify for the first time. Callum hugged me so tight I could barely breathe, whispering that he couldn’t have done any of this without me. At the time, I believed he meant it in the way a partner acknowledges a co-creator.
But as the podcast grew from a hobby into a weekly demand, the dynamic shifted in a way I didn’t see coming. Callum loved the “talent” side of things—the recording, the interviewing, the social media shouting. He would spend maybe five hours a week actually filming and recording the audio. My side of the desk, however, started looking like a full-time job. I was the one sitting with headphones on until 2:00 AM, scrubbing out his “ums” and “ahs,” balancing the levels, and cutting out the long silences where he’d forgotten his notes.
I started logging my hours out of curiosity, and the numbers were staggering. Between research, concepting the weekly themes, editing the raw files, and managing the upload schedule, I was hitting fifteen to twenty hours a week. This was on top of my actual job. My eyes were permanently bloodshot from staring at waveforms. When I mentioned I was feeling a bit burnt out, Callum would just pat my hand and say I was doing a “great job for the team.” He started referring to the show as “his” show in public, but “our” project when he needed me to fix a corrupted file at midnight.
The breaking point arrived on a Tuesday evening. Callum came home beaming, waving his phone in the air like he’d won the lottery. He’d landed a sponsorship deal with a high-end grooming brand for a three-episode arc. The payout was $2,000. I was thrilled for him, and honestly, I was thrilled for me. I immediately thought about how that money could cover our overdue utility bills or maybe even fund a small weekend getaway to the coast. We hadn’t been on a proper date in months because I was always too busy editing his voice.
Over dinner, I tentatively brought up the finances. I told him how proud I was and then suggested that, since I was doing more than half the labor, a 50/50 split of the sponsorship money felt fair. The look on his face shifted from joy to cold confusion in a heartbeat. He put his fork down and looked at me as if I’d just suggested we sell his car. He told me I was being “transactional.” He said, “You are my girlfriend, not an employee. You’re doing this because you love me and believe in my vision.”
I felt a cold splash of reality hit me right in the chest. He didn’t see me as a partner; he saw me as a free resource. He viewed my professional skills—skills people usually pay thousands for—as a natural extension of my affection for him. When I tried to argue that my time had value, he doubled down, saying that he was the “face” and the “brand,” and that editors were easy to find if I was going to be “weird” about it. I didn’t scream or throw my plate. I just nodded, finished my pasta, and went to bed early.
The next day, I made sure to do exactly what he suggested: I stopped being an “employee.” He had a recording session scheduled for that afternoon with a fairly well-known guest he’d been chasing for weeks. Usually, I would have set up the levels, tested the mics, and prepared the backup recorder. Instead, I left a note on the kitchen table saying I was going to the library to work on my own portfolio. I didn’t touch the equipment. I didn’t check the cables. I just walked out the door and turned my phone on silent.
When I came back four hours later, the apartment was silent. Callum was sitting in the dark, looking defeated. It turned out that because I wasn’t there to “mother” the tech, he’d forgotten to switch the input from the laptop’s built-in mic to the professional one. The entire interview—the big break he’d been waiting for—sounded like it had been recorded underwater inside a tin can. He looked at me with puppy-dog eyes, expecting me to tell him I could “fix it in post” like I always did. I just smiled softly and told him that sounded like a very difficult job for whoever he decided to hire.
I spent the rest of the week focusing entirely on myself. I took on a freelance branding gig that paid twice what the podcast sponsorship was worth. Every time Callum tried to bring up the “bad audio” issue, I redirected the conversation to what we should have for dinner or a movie we should watch. I was being a “girlfriend,” just like he asked. I was supportive, I was kind, and I was absolutely, 100% useless when it came to his production needs.
A week later, I noticed he was spending a lot of time on his laptop, looking frustrated. He was trying to learn how to use the editing software I’d spent years mastering. He realized very quickly that “concepting” wasn’t just thinking of an idea, but researching the legalities and historical accuracy of his claims. The polished, professional “brand” he thought he had created was actually a house of cards I had been holding up with my bare hands. He eventually had to pay a professional editor to try and save the guest episode, and the quote he got was $800—just for that one file.
The realization finally started to sink in for him. He saw the invoice from the professional and realized that $1,000 for half of the sponsorship was actually a bargain for the quality of work I had been providing. But the twist wasn’t that he apologized and offered me the money. The twist was that I realized I didn’t want it. I didn’t want to be his business partner at all. I realized that our relationship had become a parasite-host dynamic, and the podcast was just the symptom of a much deeper problem.
I stayed quiet for a few more days, watching him struggle. I wanted to see if he would come to the right conclusion on his own. One evening, he sat me down and apologized. He offered me the full $2,000, saying he realized how much I did. He told me he couldn’t do the show without me and that he wanted to make it an official partnership. It was the moment I thought I wanted, but as the words left his mouth, I felt nothing. I realized he was only offering the “partnership” because his “business” was failing, not because he genuinely valued me as a person.
I told him to keep the money and use it to hire the editor he’d found. I told him I loved him, but I was “retiring” from the world of podcasting. I wanted to go back to being just a couple, without the shadow of waveforms and timestamps between us. He seemed relieved at first, but then the reality set in. Without my unpaid labor, the podcast wasn’t a goldmine; it was a massive drain on his time and money. Within a month, his “vision” had faded because he didn’t actually want to do the work—he just wanted to be famous.
The most interesting part of the whole ordeal happened about six weeks later. I had moved my workspace into the spare room and was thriving with my own clients. Callum came to me and told me he was shutting down the podcast. He said it “wasn’t fun anymore.” He blamed the “market” and the “algorithm,” never once admitting that it was simply because the person doing the heavy lifting had stopped lifting. I just nodded and offered to help him pack the microphones back into their boxes.
As we were packing, I found the original logo I had designed. It was a beautiful piece of work, and I realized I had been wasting my talent on someone else’s dream while they didn’t even respect the effort. I took the digital files for the branding—which I technically owned—and sold the templates to a stock site. Those templates ended up making me more in passive income than the sponsorship ever would have. It was a rewarding conclusion to a very long, very exhausting chapter of my life.
Our relationship didn’t survive the year, and that’s okay. Sometimes you have to stop being the “fixer” to see if the person you’re with is actually capable of standing on their own two feet. It turns out Callum liked the version of me that made his life easy, but he didn’t know what to do with the version of me that had her own boundaries. I learned that “love” isn’t a currency you can use to buy someone’s professional labor, and anyone who tells you otherwise is usually just looking for a free ride.
I’m in a much better place now, working with people who see my invoices as a sign of respect, not an insult to a friendship. I still love a good podcast, but now I only listen to them while I’m out for a run or doing the dishes. I never, ever touch the “edit” button unless I’m getting paid what I’m worth. Life is too short to be the silent engine in someone else’s vanity project.
If you’ve ever felt like your hard work was being taken for granted by the people closest to you, remember that your time is the most valuable thing you own. Don’t let someone call it a “favor” when it’s actually a career’s worth of expertise.
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