Earlier this spring, I skipped my ten-year college reunion, and my regret about that has put me in a reflective mood. This year also marks ten years since I’ve been in the workforce. Since I rewatched Kiki’s Delivery service to feel braver about striking out on my own. I don’t like to think about my work life too much since like for most people, it takes up so many of my waking hours already. But I’ve conceded that some reflection is inevitable and necessary, and sharing it may be even helpful to others.
In the past decade – wow, that sounds too serious – I’ve been promoted once, freelanced for a year, got laid off, gone fully remote. That freelance part sounds mysterious and interesting, but let me dispel that now, because really what I did was spend a year trying to write a publishable novel and worked as a tutor to pay my bills. I did pay my bills. But the novel remains in my proverbial sock drawer, AKA a folder on my laptop that I can neither bring myself to delete nor open ever again. Nevertheless, I was proud of myself for having set myself up financially to be able to take that risk. Although I didn’t crank out a bestseller that time, I developed more grit, and I realized I still loved writing anyway, even though learning new ways to get my work out there is arduous. Maybe I didn’t have to take such a costly route to get to that declaration, but as Frank sang, “that’s life.”
I’ve also worked at two of the most recognizable brands in the world: Google and Disney. (I was also laid off from Google, last year. Story for another time.) I’ve been around some of the most brilliant people out there, and I learned a lot, including that brands and titles are not worthy of respect by default. Prestige often implies enviable character or quality, but it’s not infallible.
This seems like a no-brainer, but I had to live it to learn it.
I have a complicated relationship with prestige. On the one hand, as a first-generation college graduate and only daughter of immigrants, it would be unrealistic and dishonest to say that prestige doesn’t matter to me. It absolutely does. Acquiring marks of prestige grants me credibility in spaces that would be quick to dismiss me otherwise. I wish it wasn’t this way, but here we are.
Having been in prestigious spaces though, I’ve witnessed or even been on the receiving end of asshole-y behavior by superiors to me in title, tenure, etc. (I’ve been in therapy for different tough stretches in life, and I’m trying this thing where I don’t label people but their behavior, when applicable. I think it’s helping?) I wouldn’t say I’ve ever worked for truly bad bosses though. How I know: I remember connecting over brunch with someone who worked at a Hollywood talent agency at the time, and they found it amusing that my big news to share that week was that a Disney leader had thrown an F bomb in an email. To them, that was child’s play. To me, I was sad to understand the implication that they had been subject to worse. It’s not a competition I ever want to win.
Don’t get me wrong, for most of my working life I’ve had a healthy relationship with my jobs and got along well with my leaders, who I’ve learned from and who have also looked to me for guidance. (Hello, impostor syndrome…) It’s a low-key privilege to wake up and not be ruled by anxiety. I’m in a good place right now too, and so it’s puzzling that lately, I keep thinking back to an incident when I deeply felt a loss of respect for a leader. Or maybe it isn’t puzzling, and the explanation is that because I feel safer and stronger, I can reflect on a vulnerable time without it getting to me as much. Yeah, let’s go with that.
The setup: I’d been on my new team at Google for about half a year, jazzed about working for an Asian American leader. Especially since the leadership potential of Asians and Asian Americans is often discounted. We are in a Google event space for our annual all-team event. We’re coming up on a transition point in our agenda, but something’s gone wrong with the laptop that’s presenting the slides. Without clear direction, the crowd starts to scatter, some folks headed for the bathroom or to chat with colleagues.
The moment: I rush up to the podium at the front of the room and get to fixing the tech issue. From the back of the room, my boss becomes flustered and then takes the microphone and starts heading up toward the podium as well. When they get to me, before they address the crowd I hear from under their breath: “You guys need to do better.” Emphasis on the last two words, more bite behind them.
The after: OK, harsh, I’m trying here. I think this, but I don’t say it. I’m not well-rested because I slept poorly, my usual before big events. My team has been working on this for months, coordinating virtually for an in-person event no less. I had just moved to San Francisco for “return to office” mandates. I’m stressed and I just want to cry, but I don’t. That’s not what girlbosses do, or something. Anyway, we regain control of the crowd, and we move on with the day. My memory is fuzzy at this point. But I do remember that after the main events conclude, I drive to our social event and park in the garage nearby. And I have myself a full-on crying jag. I think I also phone a friend. But then I head to the social event. I make small talk. Yeah, woo, we did it! I sit across from the boss I’m fuming at.
The after-after: I take a few days to digest and sort out my feelings. In our next team meeting, which doesn’t include the boss, I bring up what happened to my manager. She is regretful about it, but she also says that she got snapped at, too, when they were still at the back of the room. No “I’ll speak with them about this.” I feel a bit invalidated. My disappointment grows, but I nod, accepting that bringing up the incident was enough bravery for the day. I move on, but never forget the lack of apology from the leader themselves. We do get a small monetary bonus for putting on a good event, as well as a quick thank-you from the boss sometime after, during a routine meeting.
The dissection: I could say that my fatigue won over that day and triggered my breakdown. Because on the surface, that remark isn’t so “bad.” Sure, I do always want to do better. At everything. It’s how I’ve gotten to where I am in life. So why did I take such offense, why was I so indignant that I cried? Why couldn’t I have just laughed and brushed it off? Because it’s fine for them to snap in the moment. We all do it at some point. But the lack of apology was deafening. It felt like they thought they didn’t say anything wrong, or that their tone wasn’t off to anyone but me. Then there came a second-order anger over feeling like I was too sensitive, which seemed like more insult to injury. I stewed over all this for maybe a month, considering bringing it up with them directly. I decided not to; I still have mixed feelings about that.
Look, anyone can make mistakes. I’ve made who-knows-how-many gaffes, slip-ups, significant errors. (I once fell asleep in a meeting with Disney executives. Not my brightest moment.) What I expect is for everyone to own their mistake and apologize, no matter their standing.
I don’t wish this experience on anyone, but I have a weird gratitude for it because it helped me identify my most important value for selecting leaders and workplaces — integrity. And also, after the disappointment I felt, what surprised me was that it then gave way to so much relief. It’s exhausting to lift people onto a pedestal.
Believe it or not, this is actually all a funny memory to me now. Not oh-god-I’m-snorting laughter, duh. Funny as in warranting a chuckle with friends who have also seen shit, sipping a nice cocktail with elderflower liquor in it. (St-Germain, let’s talk.) So often, women especially are painted as too “emotional,” when it’s often unfair or at least incredibly one-sided. And if I can be a little impish, I have to say, as a piece of feedback itself, it was not specific and therefore not very effective. 🙂
Now I haven’t let this or similar experiences turn me jaded. It just reminded me that I need to be more clear-eyed and realistic. That leaders are people, and people have all kinds of days. And although I strongly believe in ending toxic cycles, look… this experience did give me one more thing to channel when I put on “Fighter” at karaoke.
I may not make Christina proud with my decidedly un-superhuman singing abilities, but I think I could at least say to the twenty-two-year-old me — “You’ll be okay, kid. You’ll keep going.”
Thank you for reading. Keep going!
Your thoughts?