Like many other older millennials who graduated during the recession of ’08, who came from families with neither connections nor trust funds, and who did not look like the cast of The Hills, I was just happy to be there. I might have only been paid $12 a day (subway fare, plus lunch they said) to intern at the glossy magazine during the daytime, so I could split a $2 falafel with a roommate at night, in an apartment in which six girls slept in two bedrooms — but I was glad for the opportunity. At one magazine internship, I was assigned to catfish powerful people in media so I could collect gossip for posts, but, instead of dwelling on how their lackeys harassed me in comments and tweets, I was just thrilled to be learning how to report under pressure. I might have been groped by senior leadership, had my first drafts passed around the newsroom for ridicule, and watched as my co-interns developed gruesome eating disorders and drug habits from the pressure to fit in, but I figured these hardships were part of the job. I was so grateful to be there — for the chance, the experience, the education.