I was seated on a leather couch in a glass-walled room, looking up at three people I’d just let down.

I’d recently declined a significant advertising campaign, and my agents were far from happy. They summoned me to the agency’s main office right after my first-year virtual reality programming class, as though I’d been caught cheating on an exam—when all I’d done was say “no.”

Inside the room, I attempted to clarify: the company had a track record of ignoring environmental concerns and had made racist comments previously. For me, participating in their campaign felt unethical.

Gazing at their expressions, I could sense my words faded away before they even registered.

“Listen,” one of them finally said, “That kind of money is like a down payment on a house.”

It was accurate. Moreover, I’d just emerged from one of the most financially precarious phases of my life. As a Deaf, transgender artist in college, that payment could have covered disability expenses, health insurance, and rent. A quiet voice in my mind reminded me: such opportunities aren’t permanent. As a transgender and disabled individual, the unavoidable costs of medical and gender-affirming care would only increase over time.

It was a privilege to be offered that much money—so much so that I’ve never shared this moment publicly. How do you reconcile gratitude for an opportunity most people never receive with the guilt of turning it down?

That’s the dilemma for marginalized artists: our principles are intertwined with our survival under capitalism. Saying “no” brought me peace, but it also shut doors. I haven’t been offered projects paying anywhere near that amount since, especially in today’s political climate.

Reflecting now, I realize my choice wasn’t solely about a single paycheck. It was also rooted in the false idea of a moral black-and-white. My agents told me, “Your involvement in the campaign would do more good than harm.” At 18, I nearly believed morality operated that way.

I couldn’t influence the company’s environmental actions. However, I would have had full control over how the payment was used: what it funded, who it supported, what it helped create. That money could have gone toward interpreters, accessibility for my projects, therapy, or mutual aid for transgender and disabled groups. Ironically, representation was part of the deal: visibility for a transgender, Deaf, BIPOC artist. My younger self would have found that life-changing.

Rejecting money and the opportunity to claim space doesn’t inherently make one ethical. Sometimes it just leaves you poor. And when you’re poor, you can’t finance the work you care about. Meanwhile, the very communities advocating for representation and equity often criticize artists for associating with anything short of “perfect justice.”

But justice is never flawless. It’s reduced to a two-dimensional view online, where people judge based only on what’s visible, never the full context of someone’s life—even if they’re a public figure. Still, it’s ironic that on social media platforms, owned by some of the world’s richest men, strangers or even fellow artists voice their criticism of my complicity in capitalism. 

We all have a hand in capitalism. The distinction is that, as an artist, I’ve chosen to subject myself to this scrutiny. I need my communities to hold me accountable, even when it stings. Their anger and criticism remind me that capitalism is unjust. Yet I also know I can’t create my work outside of it. And as an artist, I’ve chosen a profession that challenges those in power—and sometimes, the only way to do that is to reshape the system from within.

So what is justice? Who gains when an artist refuses money? If I’d accepted the campaign, I might have lost some support, but I could have channeled thousands of dollars back into my communities. That’s what I aim to do now, whenever such rare opportunities come up: accept, then redistribute. At the price of being judged, I can provide financial support to those I care about and secure healthcare, safety, and even happiness for myself.

Saying “no” isn’t always virtuous. Saying “yes” isn’t always corrupt. In a capitalist society, staying true to your values is never straightforward. It’s an ongoing balance between what you can accept, what you can build, and what you’re willing to give up.