There’s this recurring delusion I keep falling for — the idea that if I just do enough, give enough, show up hard enough, the people I work for will finally look at me and say, “Yes. You belong here.”
So I bend. I burn. I stay up late. I drop everything for last-minute requests. I swallow my own plans and priorities, telling myself that responsiveness is proof of value. That I’m earning something: approval, trust, permanence.
And every time, without fail, I find myself face-to-face with the same gut punch.
A careless comment. A meeting that goes sideways. A decision made without me but about me. And the realization that no matter how much I do, no matter how quickly or competently I execute, it can all be dismissed in an instant.
It’s not always dramatic. Sometimes it’s wrapped in faux professionalism. Other times it’s blunt and sharp and leaves no room for interpretation. “Stay in your lane.” “Let someone else fix this.” “You’re not the right fit for that part.”
And it doesn’t matter that you moved mountains to make something happen. It doesn’t matter that the deadline was unrealistic or that you were operating under unclear instructions or that you created something you were proud of. Because the second your work becomes inconvenient, you become disposable.
That’s when the spiral starts.
I replay every step. I second guess every choice. I rewrite my entire internal resume with red ink. My chest tightens. My skin buzzes. The trauma-trained part of my brain whispers, you never belonged here in the first place.
Suddenly, it’s not just this one incident — it’s all of them. Every time I pushed too hard to prove I was useful. Every time I begged to be seen with output instead of honesty. Every time I told myself that effort would be enough.
The worst part? Sometimes, a few days later, they remember. They realize what you’ve been holding together. They try to walk it back, soften the language, offer a limp apology or shift the narrative like it never happened.
But the damage is already done.
Once someone has shown you how easy it is for them to strip you of value, it doesn’t matter how many compliments they offer afterward. The crack is already in the foundation. You don’t forget being pushed out of the room you built with your own hands.
And yet, so many of us keep coming back. We overextend, overdeliver, overexplain. We hope that this time will be different. That this manager, this team, this project will be the one that actually gets it. That sees us not just for the work we produce, but for the weight we carry.
But here’s what I’m learning: you can’t earn respect from people who only value results. You can’t buy security with burnout. You can’t offer your full capacity to those who treat you like a tool to be shelved when it’s inconvenient.
So I’m shifting. Slowly. Cautiously.
I’m still going to give my best — but not all of it. Not the marrow. Not the soul. Not the pieces that take too long to put back together.
Because proving myself to the wrong people doesn’t make me stronger. It just makes me tired.
And I’m done being tired for people who wouldn’t flinch if I disappeared.
