Survivor New York 2024

Chapter 1: The Call to Adventure

The hardest thing I ever accomplished didn’t happen under a blazing tropical sun on an island in the South Pacific, and it didn’t involve millions of viewers or the hope of winning a million dollars. No, I wasn’t on the real Survivor, but I did participate in a Live Reality Game (LRG)—a 3 ½ day event that felt every bit as intense as the real thing. What started as a fun opportunity to live out my Survivor dreams turned into something far more profound. It became an exercise in removing the mental clutter that had accumulated over decades—old fears, self-doubt, and insecurities that I hadn’t fully confronted until now.

I’ve been a fan of Survivor since the first season, nearly 25 years ago. My girls, Jolee and Shayna, grew up watching the show with Bill and me, and we’re all superfans. So years ago, when a friend initially invited me to join an online reality game, I turned him down. It sounded too nerdy, too much like Dungeons & Dragons—which, despite my friends’ and family’s love for it, has never really been my thing.

Then in the Spring of 2023, Jolee participated in a one-day LRG, a Survivor simulation packed into a single, chaotic day. Watching her, I thought, I can do that. So, I reached out to my friend, and soon enough, I was registered for my first game. It was also a one-day event, and I had three goals going in: not to be the first person voted out (I wasn’t), not to be the oldest (I was), and not to get hurt (I mostly didn’t). I made it to the 6th tribal council, which felt like a huge win for my first attempt. I had fun, learned about myself, and left completely hooked. I needed more.

Encouraged by my success, I decided to go all in and apply for the real Survivor. I got to work on a video and had it edited into something I was proud of. I didn’t hear back for months, but I wasn’t discouraged. While I waited, I kept playing, signing up for another one-day event.

Then, someone from the crew of my first game reached out to me about a 3-day event coming up—an LRG that would be much closer to the real Survivor experience. We’re talking sleeping bags, limited food supplies, bugs, dirt, and the uncertainty of whether we’d have actual bathrooms or be peeing in the woods. I’m a New York City girl who grew up in cabins at gymnastics camp, complete with real food, showers, and a canteen with candy and ice cream. What did I know about actual camping?

Against my better judgment, I applied and was accepted. If I couldn’t survive this, what made me think I could last 26 days on a beach with no food, all while competing in mentally grueling and intense physical challenges? So, I put my dream of the real Survivor on hold until after this event. I wasn’t quite sure what I was getting myself into, but I decided to embrace my fate.

Chapter 2: The Journey Begins

The stress started before the game even began. We were about to leave, building in plenty of time so I could get to the campground at the start of the arrival window, when we discovered our car battery had died. I was stunned into silence and walked a few blocks to get us bagel sandwiches while Bill called AAA. It took an hour for someone to show up, while we went over Plan B (ubering to Grand Central to take a train) and Plan C (renting a car), and I tried to calm down. With a new battery installed, we left 90 minutes late but still made it in time, albeit much later than I had wanted. Nonetheless, the anxiety kept creeping up as we drove. My mind raced with all the unknowns ahead.

Finally, we arrived. I dropped my bags, gave Bill a kiss goodbye, and joined the other 20 “castaways” on the field. Immediately, I noticed something that would define my experience—I was clearly one of the oldest people playing. And, after being divided into three tribes, I was the oldest on my team by at least 20 years. I could sense it in their eyes, the way they sized me up. It was hard not to feel like a liability, despite the fact that I’ve kept myself in good shape over the years. But there I was, surrounded by competitors who were closer in age to my kids than to me, and I knew I was going to have to work twice as hard to prove I belonged.

Each tribe had its own camp, complete with tribe handlers who stayed with us throughout the game. These handlers weren’t just there to make sure we didn’t sneak off and talk to members of other tribes—they were also there to document key moments. Cameras were often rolling, capturing our interactions with each other, our strategies, and our emotions. Occasionally, we were pulled aside for single confessionals on camera, where we could speak directly about our thoughts and plans. A lot of this footage didn’t air as part of the live streams on Facebook and Instagram, but will be utilized when the edited series launches on YouTube. Knowing that everything I did and said could be used later added another layer of pressure to an already intense experience.

The weekend that followed was grueling—physically and mentally. The physical challenges were tough, sure, but it was the mental game that really took its toll. Every challenge, every vote, every sleepless night in that tent on the ground reminded me of my age, my aches, and my past. I’ve always been proud of my gymnastics background, but it has been years since I’ve really competed in anything. I knew I could still hold my own, but going toe-to-toe in physical challenges against people half my age was another story.

One of my first iconic moments occurred during our first reward challenge where I was part of the tribe that was blindfolded and we were supposed to go out into a field and retrieve blocks, guided by a “caller” who directed our movements. Right off the bat, I tripped. However, instead of falling flat on my face, I instinctively tucked my chin to my chest and did a natural forward roll, jumping up to a standing position—my gymnastics training kicking in. It was a small victory, but in that moment, I felt a surge of pride. What would you have done if you were blindfolded and fell? I thought. Would you have tucked your head and gone with the fall like I did?

Like on the real Survivor, even when the physical challenges ended, the mental games were relentless. I was playing with veritable strangers. Who was being truthful? Who was being sincere? What did everyone think of me? There were moments when I doubted myself when the impostor syndrome crept in, and I wondered, What am I doing here with all these kids? 

My insecurities from decades past resurfaced, from my struggles with weight and body image to the self-doubt that had been ingrained in me since my days as a gymnast under a harsh, unfeeling coach. I realized I hadn’t truly dealt with all the mental clutter from my past. The fears of not being good enough, the lingering doubts about my abilities, even the memories of being underestimated because of my age—they all came rushing back, and our heads can only process so much information in the moment.

Despite having lost 65 pounds in 2001—when my tribe mates were mere preschoolers and grade schoolers—I’ve struggled, like many people, with the COVID-19 weight gain. This was exacerbated by the mid-life creep and the ever-expanding midsection that comes with the transition to menopause. Competing in a game like this while dealing with all of that felt like an uphill battle, one where I was constantly trying to prove to myself that I still had what it takes.

Despite the challenges, I pushed through. Buoyed by my tribe’s success in Immunity Challenges, I made it to the merge—a huge accomplishment for me. But even then, I felt the weight of being the oldest. I was in a tribe of young, energetic players, and I knew they saw me as an easy target and not a physical threat. At one point, during the chaos of strategizing before a vote, I found myself standing alone in the field as everyone else huddled in small groups. My worst fears bubbled to the surface. I knew instantly what was happening—they were planning my exit. I felt a wave of panic. I’m fucking scared, I said to the camera, and I was. My tribe mates were evasive, their body language betraying the truth. I knew I was going home.

Chapter 3: The Triumph of Self

At that fateful tribal council, someone put me on the spot for suggesting an individual’s name as a potential vote. I owned up to it and defended my strategy, but it didn’t matter. The writing was on the wall. When it was my turn to vote, and head to the area where we wrote down the name of who we wanted to send out of the game, I took a moment to soak it all in, knowing it would be my last vote. 

Up until that point, when I cast my votes in “privacy,” with the 10-20 crew members watching, I had made it a point not to make eye contact with anyone during the process, even telling the crew I was averting my gaze as I was afraid their expressions might give something away. But this time was different. I announced that I knew it would be my last vote, and I wanted to see their faces, these folks behind the scenes that made this experience possible, and commit it to memory. 

With tears in my eyes and my voice choking up, I opened myself up to the intensity of the moment. I felt the full gravity of what was about to happen, and what I had accomplished. I walked back to the tribe. The votes were read, my name was spoken. Melanie. And repeated. Melanie Melanie. The sound of my name echoed, enough times for the host to look at me and ask me to rise as he snuffed my torch. And just like that, my game was over. The tribe had spoken.

I was crushed. I had done better than in my first game, but I wanted to keep playing, proving my worth as an ally and a competitor, but the disappointment was palpable. I felt like I had let myself down. Still, I was proud of how far I had come. We started playing Thursday evening and I had “survived” for two full days, with my torch going out on Saturday as the sun was setting through the trees. I was part of the jury now, sequestered with the other players who were voted out and would, the following afternoon, vote to decide the winner out of the last three “survivors.”

That first night, after my exit, a few of us were allowed to leave, still supervised by our handlers, and we decompressed over a couple of beers at an Irish pub several miles away. 

It felt good to talk about the game, from “outside” of the game, but the emotions were still raw and conflicting.

On the third day, the sun came up as it had the previous two mornings and the raucous din of insects and frogs faded as the game resumed. We sat silent on the jury, whispering to one another as the slate of competitors dwindled and those that were voted off joined our ranks. When three people remained, they gave their speeches, and we as jury members, asked questions and sought information. The power had shifted to those of us who had been voted out. I cast my vote for the player who won, and just like that, the game was over.

But the experience continued.

As the new week started and the days went on, I found myself wondering how things might have been different if the car battery hadn’t died and we hadn’t been late. I arrived later than most of the others, and by the time I got there, I sensed that, in the socializing moments before the game had even started, alliances had already begun to form. 

I couldn’t help but think that if I’d had more time to talk to people, to connect with them on a deeper level, maybe my game would have played out differently. Maybe I would have been able to build stronger alliances, ones that could have carried me further. But that’s the nature of these games—every little thing matters, and timing can be everything.

Now, more than a week later, I still find myself reflecting on the experience. I had come face to face with my mental clutter—years of self-doubt, fear of failure, and insecurities that I had buried deep inside. Competing against people half my age had forced me to confront these feelings in a way I hadn’t before. While the game had been physically exhausting, the real challenge was emotional and mental. I had to confront my inner critic, the voice that told me I wasn’t good enough or strong enough.

This experience wasn’t just about playing Survivor. It was about proving to myself that I could let go of the mental clutter that had held me back for so long. It was about realizing that, even at 54, I could still challenge myself, push my limits, and face my fears. The hardest thing wasn’t outlasting the other players—it was outlasting my own doubts.

Full disclosure, I am playing another game this fall. It's a one-day event, which seems less daunting and I’m not as afraid. I think that after this, I will hang up my Survivor hat and retire from LRGs. Of course, people who know me well have said they don't believe that.

Will I play again? I’m not sure. The experience was intense, and the decompression was harder than I expected. In the moment, I liked, for the most part, my fellow competitors. I love meeting new people and making new friends. And having played, I am part of a greater community of brave and competitive souls who embrace these challenges. Time will tell whether or not the connections I made will stick, whether the new relationships I formed with people under intense circumstances may or may not evolve into lasting friendships.

But what I do know is this: I’m done letting the mental clutter hold me back. I’ve proven to myself that I’m stronger than I realized, even when surrounded by people half my age, and that’s the hardest—and one of the most rewarding—things I’ve ever done.