A $63,000 LESSON IN IGNORING MY INTUITION

“What's the worst that could happen?”

I said this to myself repeatedly for nearly a year about my talent manager. Thoughts of ending our work relationship loomed over me—but like any breakup, I wasn't sure I was ready to go it alone. Something about our dynamic didn't sit well with me, though. I felt that the way she spoke to me could be demeaning or negative at times. She let too many things slip through the cracks, struggled to take accountability when things went wrong, yet she'd take credit for things she had little to do with. Worse, I sometimes felt like she was competing with me. 

We had worked together for nearly four years. She DM'd me on Instagram around May 2020, asking if I was looking for representation. I had been courted by several agencies that year and was practically ready to sign with one, but I thought, why not take one more meeting? I had two calls with her and the owner of her agency. It felt promising, but I still didn't feel 100% ready to lock it down with anyone. I was getting a lot of work without any help, so I knew it had to be the right fit if I was going to give away 20% of my money.  

A few weeks after our second call, a video I made about racism after the murder of George Floyd went viral. She was the only one from any of the agencies who checked in on me, asked if I was okay, and whether I needed any support. The fact that she was Black was also swaying my decision, because I didn't want to feel like I had to explain myself all the time when it came to my partnership decisions. By October 2020, I finally accepted that I couldn't manage my inbox on my own anymore, and we made it official. 

 For a year, everything worked as it should. More work was coming in, the agency set up meetings I was excited about, and most importantly, they were getting me higher rates for my work. A year later, in November 2021, my manager told me she was leaving to start her own agency. I immediately felt panicked, as if she were abandoning me, and I realized I was more attached to her than the agency. She was the one by my side, advising me and helping me make decisions. So, I asked to be released from my agency contract and joined her new venture the following month. 

Perhaps the first red flag I ignored came about six months later, when I realized my manager hadn't paid me for about 4 months. I mentioned it to a friend who was visiting me in London, and she didn't hesitate to raise her concerns. I brushed it off, though, and assured her it was only because the agency was new and my manager was doing everything on her own. I wanted to give her grace, but I sent her a message asking her to pay out my fees at least once a month, and she complied. By the following year, I found myself keeping a running list of grievances in my head, like when she appointed her 24-year-old assistant as my talent lead to negotiate my deals, or when I felt like she hadn't protected me in contract negotiations, or little comments that I couldn't seem to shake off.

 It got to the point where each week as I clicked “end meeting” on our team call, I'd let out a deep, guttural sigh. I knew things weren't right. I could feel it deep in my body. But what's the worst that could happen, I would say to myself, if I just continued to work with her until I had something better in place. She was basically a glorified assistant, and I was scared to do things on my own again after all this time of having a team. There was also a part of me that questioned whether it would be harder for me to get work without having someone pitching me, even though most of my work came directly to my inbox. 

 By spring 2024, I found out exactly how bad it could get. 

 On April 3, 2024, I logged onto a one-on-one Zoom call with my manager to discuss restructuring plans for the agency after her business operations manager had recently (and quite abruptly) left to “embark on a new chapter,” according to her email. Also on the agenda, she wanted to address the outstanding payments I had.

I was coming off my highest-grossing year since I started doing this work full-time in 2020, and I hoped to continue increasing my earnings. In 2023, my podcast deal with Maybelline had been renewed for a second year. I had long-term partnerships with J.Crew, Reformation, and Fabletics. I had purpose-led partnerships with the Environmental Justice Foundation. I was flown to Copenhagen Fashion Week to speak at a women's empowerment summit. I didn't worry about jobs or money because everything was flowing effortlessly.

However, at the end of 2023, while working on my taxes, I realized I still had over $100,000 in unpaid invoices for the year. I pressed my agency about the money, and the business operations manager sent me several apologies and said he was chasing my payments. Before the year ended, I received about $40,000 from my agency. 

Still, I did not see it coming when my manager revealed in our one-on-one that the agency was facing financial issues. I think I blacked out, so all I can remember her saying was that there had been a “mishandling” of agency finances. That she and her former business operations manager had a different way of handling finances. I remember her specifically saying it was “not embezzlement.” She promised she was working on sorting everything out and would pay me back over the next few weeks.

 Never in my wildest dreams did I consider this scenario a possibility. In my mind, there was a very clear system for the financial logistics at a talent agency: the agency invoices a brand for payment. The payment arrives. The agency takes its cut, and then immediately sends me my cut. 

During this call, I was perhaps more focused on having a reason to remove myself from this business arrangement than the missing money, because in that moment, I still trusted her when she said she would pay me back. I trusted that she would take care of things. I had worked with her for years, so I didn't inherently think I had a reason not to trust her word. Despite the things I may have disliked about her, she always made me feel she believed in me and my potential even more than I did. But I finally had the easy out I was looking for. I let her know this day would be my 30-day notice to terminate my contract—and she took it well.  

 The following day, upon my request, my manager emailed a breakdown of all my outstanding jobs. When she sent over the list, the total amount owed to me was $78,000. She noted that two jobs would be paid out in the next week and four by the end of April. She paid me $7,380 a few days later. Suddenly, it was April 30, and with only a week left of us working together, I realized she still had not paid me for the other jobs she said I'd receive by the end of April. So, I sent a follow-up email that was more stern.

 “I don't think I need to tell you what a massive breach of trust this is, and if you don't want me to escalate things further, I need you to be upfront with me.” In hindsight, I can't believe how naive I was. I should've escalated the situation after that first meeting. I thought I somehow still had the power in this situation. I was also going through a breakup at the same time, so I was experiencing quite a range of emotions.

Eventually, she responded, saying she was in a “major state of panic and depression.” Her assistant, who worked on my partnerships, was resigning because she was also depressed. She admitted that all the money owed to me was the agency's fault, not any of my brand partners. She wrote that she was working with financial advisors, and they projected she would need 90 days to repay her debts.

My heart sank into my stomach. Three months was too fucking long. 

The panic button inside me had finally been triggered. I told her she could no longer invoice any brands on my behalf, considering she had negotiated about five jobs for me in our last month together. I reached out to a friend on the roster to see if he knew what was going on—and that's where things began to unravel further. 

He told me he had left the agency months prior and that he wasn't owed any money, but he knew two other creators who were in the same boat as me. I reached out to them next. One said she had also left the agency after threatening to involve a lawyer, our manager quickly paid her by taking out a loan. The other creator was also leaving and was waiting for payment. I was confused why no one had tried to warn me. One of the creators tried to rationalize not telling me because she thought that my manager and I were “best friends.” That's definitely not how I ever viewed or portrayed the relationship. 

If it wasn't clear by then that I was in over my head, my manager emailed me a debt settlement agreement on May 13, citing that she would pay my debt back in 90 days–but there were some conditions attached. A confidentiality and non-disparagement clause stating: “All Parties agrees not to make negative comments or otherwise disparage the one another or its customers, officers, employees, managers, products or services, in any that may be deemed harmful to them or their business, business reputation or personal reputation. In addition, any disparagement made by Creditor to individuals or the greater public at large can be deemed harmful and will negatively affect the ability of Debtor to work in the industry and in return make payment to Creditor.” 

 I needed legal help because there was no way in hell I was signing that. I reached out to the lawyer who handled my contract with my first agency, but when I told him that I had never actually signed a contract wth my manager, he never responded. So I called in a family favor. One of my cousins happened to be married to a top entertainment lawyer. After a quick call, her firm quickly drafted up a demand letter so threatening that I was consumed with anxiety the day I knew it was being sent out. 

 What if she had a nervous breakdown? Tried to kill herself? It was nearly impossible for me to imagine how someone could ever put themselves in a situation like this, so I kept trying to imagine the stress she was under. I worried about her. The law firm wanted to give her 30 days to pay back the debt, but I asked to extend it to six weeks.

Any empathy I had for her soon left my body when I found out she had replied to the demand letter, accusing me of defamation. Yes, of course, I was telling industry peers. There's no way I would conceal the fact that someone working for me hadn't paid me money I was owed. I also reached out to my brand partners whose payments I had not yet received, to inform them of the situation and to request payment dates. I also attempted to stop checks that might be en route to her.

 She had until July 14, 2024, to get me $67,530.

 Even with a lawyer involved, I didn't feel much relief. Where exactly was she going to get all that money from? If she had already taken out loans to pay other people back, how was she going to pay her loans and me? What difference would thirty days vs three months vs six weeks make? Was I spending all this money on a lawyer to end up with nothing? 

 By July 13, I was back in London for the summer, watching the Eurocup with a few friends, when I got an email from my legal team. My manager had engaged a lawyer, which I was relieved by because it felt like she was actually taking this seriously. Her lawyer apologized for the defamation accusations and how she handled everything, and said that my manager now understood the gravity of her behavior. However, she did not have the money, and they were working to get her another loan—but they would need another 90 days, which would extend her deadline again to October 18, 2024. My manager signed a stipulated judgment in exchange for the extension of the deadline.

 As an “in good faith” gesture, my manager would send me $5,000. I received that money on July 19, 2024, via direct deposit.

 I have not received another dollar from her since. 

 When the final deadline, October 18, rolled around, I was having a solo weekend in Ibiza after attending a friend's wedding. Not a day passed without replaying everything and the possible outcomes. I tried to stay neutral, wavering between the hope that the money would magically appear in my account and the fear that I would never see it again. This amount was roughly the average American salary.

 Yes, I am fortunate to still be able to live my life the way I want without that money. It was also money I worked hard for—it was my money. Not to mention, it was painful to be betrayed by someone I had worked so closely with. As a content creator/influencer, you are your business, and your manager is involved in every facet of it. She had been in my home, met my parents, some of my friends, and even my ex-boyfriend. She told me about her life, her family, and I had dinner with her and her sister once. I told her personal things happening in my life. We gossiped, we argued, we had a relationship just like any two people who work side by side together day after day.

 On the day of the October deadline, it was confirmed that her loan didn't come through. She requested a payment plan, but it's been 15 months now, and I haven't seen another dollar or heard from her. 

 What did she do with the money? Is always the first question people ask me when I tell them the story. In one of her emails, she wrote that the situation resulted from a few rough months of late payments and insufficient funds. I just didn't think my money would ever be used to keep the business afloat. I think running a talent/influencer agency is a lot more complicated than most people think. So I don't think there was malicious intent—but it doesn't make the impact of it any less devastating. 

 Writing this felt like the best way to make peace with it and put it behind me. Yet a part of me still feels guilty about sharing this. Things like this happen to influencers all the time, though typically bad-faith managers lie about rates and take a bigger cut of their talent's fee. As I started sharing my story privately, I heard so many other similar stories. It also happens to freelancers/contractors. There's still a stylist out there who also owes me $1000 from 2011 (which was my month's rent at the time). We are conditioned to excuse and protect people's bad behavior—for fear of stirring up trouble, others thinking we're difficult, or the possibility of being blacklisted from the industry. That never sat well with me. Even though what happened may have been a mistake, she has been able to start her life over in a different country with zero accountability. My silence—and the silence of every other client who experienced this—has only made it easier for her to do so.

 I've spent enough time questioning why this happened and what I could have done differently. Was it somehow my fault for not being careful enough? Was I too trusting? Like many relationships gone wrong, there were definitely red flags I ignored. I ignored my intuition, which was trying to warn me that something was off—but because I was afraid to just do the hard thing, I paid the consequences, literally. Even with a great lawyer, I've never felt so powerless. I will never recover the money in the way I deserved, so I just have to trust that what was taken from me will come back in other ways.