When Your Boss Makes You Cry
The day they made me cry, I knew it was time to go.
I had been working at an after-school program for children and teens for four years, and it was like a lot of nonprofits. I was really working many jobs: marketing, writing grants and even organizing some events and programs. But I liked it. It was stressful, sure, being responsible for securing millions in grants and spreading the word of all the good work going on. But when I got tired of sitting at the computer, I could walk next door and play four-square with kids who loved to hug.
The first three years, the annual performance reviews with my boss were something to look forward to. The casual meetings mostly consisted of her telling me that she couldn’t think of anything I needed to improve. These boosts of confidence came with a small but meaningful raise. I’d leave feeling good about the work I was doing and the difference I was making in the lives of children.
In fact, I was so well-liked that the president of the board decided to remodel the administrative offices so that I could have an office. Previously, I had been working in a cubicle wedged into a glorified hallway. Rich donors would walk in the door and expect the royal treatment — the development director was always there, right on cue, to compliment outfits and ask about international travels. But those loud conversations were problematic for a grant writer fighting to finish a submission before deadline. The president saw it and decided to build a small office for me so I could focus on my good work.
Little did I realize how fleeting those feelings of support were. But as they say, all good things must pass.
About a month before construction of my new office was complete, my boss hired a new right-hand man. This guy had moved down to our small beach town in Florida from Newark, New Jersey. He was full of bravado and chest hair, both puffing out brazenly under his collared shirt. Even though he certainly was higher up the food chain than me, overseeing the programs and the staff who ran it all, he was assigned a desk in a large, shared office.
The first thing he did was hang framed honor certificates on the wall over his desk. I looked at them. They were given to him by a buddy he gushed about constantly, who had worked with him at his old nonprofit.
The second thing he did was make it abundantly clear that he believed he should have my little, new office.
Operation Take My Office was subtle, but hard not to notice. He would interrupt me in staff meetings. He started making small comments belittling my work. He would object to otherwise-routine and polite emails I’d send to get the information I needed to write grants and do my work. Then he started cornering me in the hallway. A task needed to be done, and he needed me to do it. Sure, it was technically his job. And he wasn’t my boss. But somehow, I needed to do it — you know, since I had that fancy office and all.
Then, my boss announced that they had enlisted the help of an outside consultant, who would be administering performance reviews. Some of my co-workers looked around nervously, but I was confident. Performance reviews were a chance for me to shine. I was a hard worker who produced results and never caused problems. I was still holding my head high when, on a Monday, I was informed that my performance review would be that afternoon.
Right on time, I strolled into the small room, usually used for one-on-one tutoring. Stuffed around a table was my boss, the new guy and the stern-looking consultant. They were sitting up very straight, shuffling papers. They handed me a seven-page document that, it turned out, was a review that ripped me to shreds.
It seemed they had been collecting reasons to be disappointed in me for the last month. I needed to step up my work, they informed me. The three faces were staring at me, shaking their heads with a look of disgust. I wasn’t doing good enough.
I started shrinking in my seat.
In fact, I obviously needed more supervision. My boss announced that the new guy was going to be my new boss. And that annual event I had planned later in the week? Just who did I think I was, making the decisions that I had made for the last three years? Just who did I think I was?
They decided that I was to be responsible for about half of the new guy’s responsibilities. It would double my workload. And maybe if I improved to meet these new expectations, in a year, I could receive a 3% raise. But as of now, nothing. I did not deserve anything. Did I have any questions?
I was fighting back tears, doing everything I could to maintain some dignity. No, I stammered. I didn’t have any questions.
I limped out of the room, walked down the hallway to my new office, grabbed my car keys and headed to the parking lot. I drove two minutes to a nearby park and called my mother, crying in shock. I had worked for 10 years as a reporter at a newspaper. I had all kinds of crappy jobs and crappy bosses since I was 16. I never cried. I didn’t realize how lucky I had been.
By the time I returned to the office, I knew only one thing: My good thing was gone.
At the end of that day, I picked up a bottle of wine and popped the cork minutes before slumping down into my couch. I needed to act fast, I realized two glasses in. I needed to land on my feet. First, I sent an email to my boss announcing a mysterious illness coming over me. I needed to use a sick day or two.
Then I began to work my network. I started emailing friends, wondering if they knew of any jobs out there for an award-winning journalist, grant writer, marketing executive and special event coordinator. Of course, there were. In fact, a man who ran a real estate firm — about whom I happened to have written a glowing profile in a local magazine a few years prior — needed someone to oversee his advertising. Could I come in Wednesday for an interview? I sure could.
I took another sick day, feigning mock disappointment that I couldn’t attend the event I had organized and was chastised for. It didn’t matter if I got this new job, I decided. No one should make anyone cry at work. I knew already that when you started to disagree with your boss, it was time to go. You’re never going to win. I knew I had to put energy into my future, not my ego.
The interview went great. I crafted a transition memo to outline all my deadlines and projects I currently had underway. I went into the office on Thursday. My new boss smiled when he asked me to write a few reports that used to be his responsibility. Sure, I said, knowing darn well I wouldn’t.
Instead, I cleaned out the office I had just moved into. I cleared my office computer of anything I didn’t want anyone to see. I created a portfolio of my work on a thumb drive. I had a secret meeting with the human resource staff, who felt sorry for me. My health care would continue through the end of the month, they reassured. The receptionist looked suspiciously as I quietly carried a box of my personal items out at the end of the day.
On Friday, a major grant was due. Luckily, I already had everything prepared. Around 11 a.m., I knocked on my old boss’s door to announce I was going to go drop it off as expected. But then, I did something she didn’t expect: I handed her a resignation letter and the transition memo.
“Fine,” she said without reading it. “Can we talk about it next week?”
No, I explained. There would be no next week. I wasn’t giving notice. I was leaving right then and there. Shocked, she looked at the transition memo. Everything was there for whomever had to take over.
“You don’t treat people like that,” I said, knowing full well they would.
I then walked out of her office into mine. I pressed send on a farewell email I crafted to all my contacts. I picked up my bag, and I walked out the door with my head held high. Within a week, I had a new job. And within eight months, I was working for that nonprofit’s largest financial supporter.
I fielded endless calls from former co-workers who had gone through similarly devastating performance reviews. They dreamed of lawsuits and righting of wrongs. I had the same advice for all of them: Leave, because no job should make you cry.
