Joy Reid sat on the stage at the Martha’s Vineyard African American Film Festival, soft lights shining down on her familiar curls. No longer the sharp host of “The ReidOut” on MSNBC, tonight Joy was a storyteller—and she knew this story wasn’t just her own.

She smiled gently at Jotaka Eaddy, her close friend and the moderator of that evening’s conversation. They had spent many long evenings together, discussing the injustices faced by women of color, especially in the media—a world where the spotlight sometimes only glosses over the deep cracks beneath.

Joy began to speak, her voice lowering as if recalling her early days at MSNBC. “I worked in a place where I was paid a tenth of what others doing my same job earned,” Joy said, her gaze sweeping the room. “We all knew that any man doing what I did would make more—and be able to negotiate even more—even with lower ratings.”

There was a brief silence, then Joy smiled sadly. She didn’t envy Rachel Maddow—her famous female colleague—when she found out Maddow made up to $30 million a year, while she herself received just $3 million. Joy knew Maddow deserved it, but what troubled her was that some male colleagues, whose ratings were not as high as hers, still got paid more. That’s a truth everyone knows, but few dare to say.

She spoke about “the curse of competency”: “The better you are, the harder you work, the more people give you to do. More hours, more overtime, more research—but the pay stays the same.” Joy recalled late nights, when the studio lights had gone out, and she stayed to finish scripts, double-check every detail, just to make sure the next morning’s broadcast was flawless. Yet all those efforts seemed to be just “part of the job,” not something worthy of extra compensation.

The audience listened, many nodding in empathy. Not a few had also been the “competent one” at work, given more tasks without recognition. But for Joy, it was heavier, being a woman—and a woman of color—in an industry that wasn’t built for people like her.

Joy continued, recalling the day “The ReidOut” was canceled. It was a shock, but not entirely unexpected. “I’m used to having to work twice as hard to be recognized half as much,” she said. But instead of breaking down, Joy saw it as a chance to speak out, to tell her story—and the story of millions of other women out there.

She remembered salary negotiations, facing skeptical looks, convoluted explanations about “budget” and “company policy.” Each time, Joy would tell herself, “Maybe I need to try even harder.” But the more she tried, the more she realized the issue wasn’t her effort or her talent.

Joy’s story isn’t just about the $3 million a year, or the gap with Maddow’s $30 million. It’s a story about deep-rooted injustice in media, about talented women kept behind the scenes, about dreams limited by invisible glass ceilings.

That evening, as the stage lights faded, Joy Reid became a voice for millions. She was no longer just a TV host, but a storyteller—a story about dignity, the desire to be truly recognized, and the journey to break barriers that seem impossible.

And somewhere in the audience, perhaps someone looked up at the stage, quietly thinking: “If Joy Reid can speak out, maybe I can too.”