Bosses. Who Doesn’t Hate Them? (Or Is It Just Me?)

I sometimes think I’ve been professionally cursed.

Not in a dramatic, “the universe is against me” way.

More in a quiet, consistent, “why do I keep meeting the same type of authority in different bodies?” kind of way.

I won’t name names. I won’t mention places. I won’t mention industries. I still need to pay rent.

But I will tell you this.

The One Who Disliked Me Before I Even Started

My first real brush with workplace politics wasn’t about work.

I was good at my job. I finished my tasks. I met deadlines. I was confident. Maybe a little visibly confident.

And that seemed to be enough.

Someone later told me that during my interview, this person was already against hiring me.

Before knowing me. Before seeing my work.

Every mistake I made — no matter how small — was treated like proof that I didn’t belong.

It wasn’t correction. It was personal.

That’s when I learned that sometimes competence threatens people more than incompetence does.

The One Who Thought My Time Was Free

Then came the boss who didn’t hate me.

They just didn’t value me.

I worked through illness.
I worked during COVID.
I worked late nights.
I worked without proper pay.

First the compensation reduced.
Then travel expenses vanished.
Then payment became irregular.
Then it almost disappeared.

When I told them I was moving abroad for higher studies — after giving notice well in advance — the expectation was simple:

“Continue working remotely.”

Across time zones.
Without proper pay.

Before I left, they hired three people to replace me.

Three.

I had been doing that work alone.

On my last day, I wasn’t even part of the transition meeting. Later, I heard voices were raised. Cameras were demanded on. People were accused of lying about being busy.

The three new hires called me in distress.

That was the first time I chose myself.

I stepped away completely.

It felt terrifying.
It also felt like oxygen.

The One Who Shouted

There was a phase in my career when I worked under someone who believed shouting was management.

Not the kind of shouting parents do when they’re frustrated and later calm down.

This was different.

It sounded like:

“You know nothing.”
“Do it properly or leave.”
“Why are you even here?”

The kind of environment where every mistake felt like proof that you didn’t belong.

Over time, it started making me question whether I had learned anything at all — despite degrees, despite experience, despite leading teams before.

That contrast was disorienting.

Outside of work, I knew I was capable.

Inside that space, I felt small.

There were periods when I went home emotionally exhausted in a way that sleep didn’t fix.

Not because the work was impossible — but because the atmosphere was heavy.

It wasn’t always loud.

But when it was, it lingered.

The Cycle

And the confusing part?

It wasn’t constant.

After difficult days came unexpectedly kind ones.
After sharp words came softer tones.
After visible frustration came sudden appreciation.

It created a strange cycle.

At times, I was made to feel replaceable.
At other times, I was told I was indispensable.

It was hard to understand which version was real.

Looking back, I think what affected me most wasn’t workload.

It was unpredictability.

It felt like being in a toxic relationship.

Not even one you love.

Just one you endure.

You know it’s unhealthy.
You know you deserve better.
But rent exists.
Expenses exist. 
Reality exists.

It’s Not Always Just the Boss

And sometimes, it isn’t even just the person at the top.

Sometimes it’s the room.

In one workplace, there were people around me who treated me like I was made of stone.

Like I didn’t have feelings.
Like words didn’t land.
Like I was just there to absorb impact.

I’ve been called names.
I’ve been dismissed mid-sentence.
I’ve been spoken over as if I was invisible.

The belittling wasn’t loud every time.

Sometimes it was subtle.

A tone.
A laugh.
A look exchanged between people when you speak.

The kind of environment where you start shrinking yourself just to survive the shift.

And you tell yourself: “It’s fine. It’s just work.”

But your body doesn’t think it’s fine.

You go home exhausted in a way that sleep doesn’t fix.

You replay conversations in your head.

You start questioning whether you’re too sensitive.

When in reality, you’re just human.

No, nothing “dramatic” has happened.

But sometimes emotional erosion is enough.

So… Is It a Curse?

I don’t know.

Maybe I’ve just been unlucky.

Maybe I tolerate too much before I walk away.

Maybe I keep believing that hard work will automatically earn respect.

It doesn’t.

Shouting doesn’t build discipline.
Underpaying doesn’t build loyalty.
Belittling doesn’t build strength.

It just builds anxiety.

I don’t hate work.

I hate feeling small at work.

I hope I’m the only one cursed.

But if I’m not — if you’ve ever left a shift feeling invisible, incompetent, or emotionally bruised —

Tell me.

Maybe we’re not cursed.

Maybe we’re just figuring it out together.