The sting in my eyes lingered long after the shower, a persistent, blurry reminder of poor judgment. I’d tilted my head back too far, trusting the rinse cycle to be complete, only to get a fresh dollop of pearlescent shampoo right where it didn’t belong. It made me think about other kinds of blurring, the ones we let happen in professional spaces, especially when someone starts talking about “family” in the workplace. That initial, disorienting haze often mirrors the confusion that sets in when corporate rhetoric twists genuine human connection into a tool for compliance.
My manager, let’s call him Arthur, had that hand-on-shoulder move down pat. It was always just a touch too long, too intimate for a cubicle farm, especially when he used it to deliver the corporate version of a hug or, in my case, a thinly veiled reprimand. “I’m not angry,” he’d said, his voice dropping an octave, the very picture of disappointed paternalism. “I’m just… disappointed. After everything we’ve done for you. I thought we were family.” This was after I’d given notice, after 39 months of what I genuinely believed was shared dedication, clocking in a collective 4,999 hours for the company during that period.
The words felt like a gut punch, not because I was leaving a family, but because I realized I’d been manipulated into thinking I was part of one. The disappointment wasn’t his; it was mine, for having bought into such an insincere



















