Did I Get Fired? The Badge.

Part I: The Crisis. Personal Field Note.

Three parking spaces are open. Out of thousands.

I was already late. A rollover accident on the highway had turned my commute into a crawl, and the chest pains—the ones that had started showing up a few weeks ago—were ripping through my ribs. My jaw was clenched so tight my teeth ached. Sweat soaked through my silk blouse. I banged my hands on the steering wheel.

“Dammit, you idiot! You will be late now!”

The other driver spotted the space at the same time I did. I slammed the gas, yanked the wheel right, squealed into the spot, and hit the brakes just short of the car in front of me. Victory. I mouthed “I’m sorry” to the other driver as I ran past.

Three flights of stairs to the badge scanner. I swiped. Nothing.

My heart stopped.

“Did I get fired?”

I wiped the badge on my pants and swiped again. Nothing. My hands were shaking. I hit the call button. A loud, unfriendly voice from the box: “Yes.”

“Hi, um—my badge isn’t working. Can you help?”

“Show your badge to the camera.”

I held it up to the corner-mounted camera and waited. Employees walked past me, scanning their badges with ease, pushing through the turnstile like it was any other morning. For them, it was. I watched the seconds tick on my watch. The voice returned. “Try again.”

It worked. “I still have a job.”

Three more flights of stairs. Into the office. Bags on the desk. Sprint to the meeting. Late.

Everyone glared. Especially Chris, my boss. My inner critic was wide awake: “You are a pathetic soul.”

I glared back—inside. Outside, I mouthed, “I’m so sorry.”

He shrugged.

The day before, Chris had given me a performance review. “Performing below expectations,” he’d said. I hadn’t slept since. My thoughts pinged around like a ping pong ball:

I’m single. I have a mortgage. A car loan. Vet bills. Student loans.

This was a Tuesday. Just a regular Tuesday.

I lived like this for nearly a decade. Not because I wanted to. Because I couldn’t see a way out.

I was a tenured professional in the federal government, leading a multi-million-dollar program. I had an MBA. I’d been accepted into a doctoral program. When I jumped to a Fortune 100 company, I believed it was the right move. For a year, it was.

Until it wasn’t.

I watched leaders abuse their positions in ways I couldn’t have imagined. Employees were shamed, isolated, verbally harassed, and pitted against each other. Careers are treated like toys. I experienced it personally—the mental and emotional erosion that happens when your work environment is designed to break you. I gave in to the criticisms. I became a shell of a person. My family noticed. My friends noticed. My rational, confident, humorous self disappeared. I became short-tempered and hypersensitive and preferred to be alone.

My friend Anne said it plainly:

“Desperation is on your face and I hear it in your voice.”

She was right. For years I had crammed my anxiety into every cell of my body until it shouted “Enough” and started rebelling. The stress was attacking me from the inside out.

When people asked why I didn’t leave, I wanted to scream.

“I’m trying.” If it were only that easy.

It’s never that easy. And if you’re reading this and you know exactly what I mean—this community is for you.