The events in this essay are told from my perspective, shaped by my memories, feelings, and interpretations. I have intentionally removed identifying information and do not intend to assert factual claims about any specific individual. Some details have been altered or generalized to preserve privacy. My purpose is to share my lived experience, not to assign blame or cause harm.

In the last year, I’ve gone through a fairly dramatic shift. I stepped outside the confines of traditional academia. This means I’m no longer trudging along toward being a professor at a research university, which was the plan for the last decade of my life.

While it’s true—and feels better—to present this change as one of triumph, self-discovery, and empowerment, it’s equally true that in this change, I’ve experienced more heartache, betrayal, and a loss of identity compared to any other period in my life.

And the thing is, nobody knew.

I thought it was obvious.

I thought people read between the lines.

They didn’t.

I am an author, editor, and ghostwriter. I empower other authors daily to tell their most authentic stories with authenticity, bravery, and vulnerability.

It’s funny to realize sometimes I’m horrid at communicating my own story.

I’m a recovering people pleaser. I don’t like the feeling of taking up space. Of being an inconvenience, a burden, or a problem. I avoid conflict, avoid tough emotions, ignore my gut when I should listen.

I’ve learned some hard lessons. One of the biggest?

When you provide silence, you give people space to make up their own stories.

It turns out that by being silent, I sheltered those around me from some ugly truths—and unintentionally allowed people to make up their own stories based off the limited information available to them.

I should know: I love making up stories from the breadcrumbs people post on social media.

I’m not here today in your inbox to complain and moan—but to do the radically simple thing and just be honest. Be a bit louder, and take up the space you’ve already said I can have in your life, your inbox, your feed.

I owe it to you not to sugarcoat reality.

I don’t like to harp on the negative side of this particular story, as that’s completely counter to who I am as a person. I assume the best in people, give the benefit of the doubt freely, and bend over backwards to put myself in people’s shoes. I’ve long assumed that because I have other peoples’ best interests in mind, they also have my best interests in mind.

Note my very intentional use of past and present tense. I still assume the best in people, I still offer the benefit of the doubt freely, and I do still work incredibly hard to take others’ perspectives.

But I can no longer assume other people have my best interests in mind.

I call myself Monkey Girl. This isn’t a title I gave myself. It’s what people outside my academic bubble call me, when they can’t remember my name. “Have you talked to… that Monkey Girl?”

That’s because I had a dream job. I studied why individuals love, how they communicate, and what about their social worlds predict different patterns of behavior. I’ve traveled to remote jungles across the globe studying primates—monkeys and apes—to answer my research questions.

I’ve spent countless hours working closely with nonhuman primates in research facilities, getting up close and personal insight into how they think, behave, and live.

Everything was great. I worked with fascinating animals, collaborated with brilliant people, and genuinely loved my day-to-day.

Everything was great. Until I looked back in the rear-view mirror and realized it wasn’t.

I became a mother in 2024. If I didn’t step away from work for the necessary process of healing from childbirth and keeping my newborn alive, I might not have gotten out.

I’ll put it plainly: I experienced patterns of behavior like harassment, bullying, boundary-crossing, and emotional manipulation. This behavior deeply affected my well-being. For years.

I thought I was vocal about my experiences. I was vocal in meetings where I presented facts stoically. In meetings where I sobbed my eyes out. In front of my boss. In front of many colleagues.

I sent text messages pleading for help. I sent emails.

I was not heard, and nothing changed.

So I learned to keep quiet. Keep my head down.

Avoid that corner of the facility.

Avoid going to that break room.

Avoid being alone in certain areas of my workplace at certain times of day.

Avoid telling anyone about the discomfort and fear I navigated around daily.

The thing about long-term abuse is that it occurs in shades of gray. Rarely is there a single instance to point to, and harmful behavior often leaves no receipts. Plausible deniability and all that.

And, let it be explicitly clear, I am not someone who keeps receipts. I am not someone who assumes mal intent of anyone around me.

Because the fact of the matter is, nobody likes to hear the truth when it’s unpleasant. Nobody likes to hear the ugly things that have happened behind closed doors, in hushed meetings, on phone calls instead of emails because “emails can be subpoenaed”.

I’ve spent over a year in therapy. I should have been in therapy much sooner.

There’s a world in which I live out my career at the university that trained me. I carry on as the next scientist to investigate animals’ social lives and serve as a steward for the research primates I consider collaborators.

That future doesn’t exist any more.

Some of the earliest moments of discomfort in my career came when I was asked to perform tasks I wasn’t trained for—tasks that left me unsettled and unsure of my role. When I voiced my discomfort, I felt dismissed, embarrassed in front of colleagues, and told to continue anyway.

Keep in mind, I was 20 years old. And most of my colleagues were twice or three times my age.

This was the first time someone in power, someone I trusted, told me without saying a word that my instincts were wrong. And I learned to keep quiet. Because if I stayed quiet, I could continue building my career. If I got loud, it felt easier for those in power to remove me than to address anything larger.

This pattern continued. While I was having a wonderful time working with phenomenal animals, learning everything I ever wanted to learn about the natural world, and participating in research I cared deeply about, there was a dark undertone.

A pattern I was learning:

You’re uncomfortable? That’s your problem.

Your instincts? Wrong.

For 8 years, I carried that weight.

But then it changed. While the larger organization I worked at was rife with problematic people, the research lab I was in used to be my sanctuary. It was us against the rest of them. We did good science. We showed up for each other. We respected each other.

Some of my best friends, true lifelong friends, are colleagues I met within my lab.

But around two years ago, something shifted.

Dynamics in my immediate workspace grew tense and confusing. I began experiencing interactions that felt increasingly uncomfortable, manipulative, and emotionally destabilizing. Some moments crossed personal boundaries in ways that left me deeply unsettled. I spent a year trying to navigate these dynamics without harming anyone’s reputation, without causing trouble, without being “the problem.”

Here’s one of my biggest problems: I care. I care deeply about people I work with, work for, commit to. And I will bend over backwards to make sure that they’re cared for—even when the cost is my own sanity and safety.

When I finally spoke up in a way that couldn’t be brushed aside—when I put my experience into writing—it felt as though those in power found it easier to distance themselves from me than engage with the deeper issues I’d raised.

I bowed out quietly. To preserve my peace and my relationships with my superiors, I stepped aside and worked remotely.

But see, by being quiet, I left a wide berth of room for misinterpretation. One that I’m only now understanding.

From the outside, what people saw:

• My career trajectory shifted.

• Me angry “for no reason.”

• Me “losing my mind” in the journey to motherhood.

• Me becoming the mad woman everyone likes to hate.

On the inside, what I knew:

• The people who had promised to care for me, protect me, and support me no longer could—or no longer would. That betrayal cut deep.

• Some of my dearest friends moved from the “Favorites” list in my phone to the “Blocked” list. Not gone, just tucked away as a long-overdue attempt to protect myself and my family.

• The future I’d planned for myself was no longer healthy or safe.

• My connection to the animals I worked with—once the anchor of my career—felt changed beyond repair, a loss I’m still learning how to carry.

When it came to my attention that the narrative behind my departure had slipped from my hands—and that my contributions might not be fully recognized—I made one final attempt to bring my perspective forward.

I sent a single email.

If you’d like to read the version I’m comfortable sharing publicly, it’s below this paywall.

Certain details are omitted for my own protection.

It was the single most honest piece of writing I had ever written. I didn’t hold back—about my feelings, my heartbreak, my confusion, my boundaries finally breaking after years of silence.

Before you scroll away, I have a suggestion, because supporting me by being a paid subscriber doesn’t just unlock a single article.

This is a space for honesty, the big questions we need to be asking, and the stories most people are too afraid to share.

☕️ Cut one cup of artisanal coffee out of your monthly budget. Drink your coffee from home and I’ll share the tea every Friday.

I’m not here to damage anyone. Or to point fingers.

But access to the truth isn’t something everyone can handle.