Corporatology 004: Ceilings Made of Courtesy - Part I

“The world breaks everyone, and afterward many are strong at the broken places.” — Hemingway

Months later, I present this raw morsel to you - the words I scratched in the unmoored days after the RIF... My husband says, "You didn't lose your job; it was taken from you."

It seems appropriate to start 2026 with a collection of rules I broke, for your consideration, of course. Next week, we'll look at the rules I kept.

Just moments ago, I was a 'Corporate American' woman whose team was ripped from her, decimated. I watched as my co-workers, my friends, my fellow humans were called into the video meeting, one-by-one. Like fricking sitting ducks.

Once upon a time, in a far-off land, I felt that job was my calling, my mission to help those entrusted to me - and it was shredded for the love of money under the guise of national security. I'm trying to call foul, but I'm in an Ariel nightmare with no voice. It's so quiet I can hear my heart break.

My badge has stopped working, and my inbox vanished. The silence feels like a reckoning. I’m chasing mindless tasks to find my footing; let me just dust the baseboards for the 75th time, to avoid bitterness. Shellshock. Empty. I don't want it. Anyway, bitterness is sleazy cheap, killing everything it touches.

Grace pushes to cover my ego and my excuses—walking me through this mess, steady and unashamed. What in the actual heck just happened?

“But God demonstrates His own love for us in this: while we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” — Romans 5:8

While I was still a VP, Christ died for me.

I’ve spent the last several years in boardrooms that worship control: org charts, policies, acronyms, and power. I helped build those things (who doesn’t love a pretty org chart? It's giving fastidious vibes, ya'll), but I learned the hard way that structure without soul becomes a cage.

2025 was a long undoing—difficult in ways that stripped me down to my real self. I lost things I thought I’d keep forever and found peace I didn’t think I deserved.

I had built a career out of fixing the broken—systems, teams, people—including myself. I didn’t get here clean or easy, but I got here. Knuckles gnashed all the same.

Maybe I didn’t follow the script closely enough. Maybe that’s why my access badge no longer works. I don’t think I was RIF’d for breaking rules—I think God was removing me from a place I’d already outgrown. Rescuing me from further poison. Clearing my name of treachery.

“I have swept away your offenses like a cloud, your sins like the morning mist.”
— Isaiah 44:22

God doesn’t waste endings. He rewrites beginnings.
Mine starts by naming the rules I didn’t plan to break, but couldn’t keep.

Well… let's be real, maybe I meant to break a few of them.
After all, rules—like The Code—are more what you’d call guidelines.
Parlay.

1. The Rule of Deference

“Stay in your lane.”

Sometimes, staying in your lane is wisdom. There’s a purpose in structure, in order, in knowing who’s steering what.

But too often, “stay in your lane” is just another way of saying, don’t question it. It’s “let’s take this offline,” “we’ll revisit next quarter,” “let’s align before we act.” Translation: let’s never actually fix it.

I asked for a decision three weeks in a row, only to get the same promise to “circle back.” It never happened. Eventually, I was told my communication "soured" them.

I’ve learned that waiting your turn can be a polite form of disappearing. I suppose it would've been better if I'd stayed in my lane.

But I asked the questions that make the air shift:
Who is this serving?
Why are we still doing it this way?
What are we protecting—our people or our egos?

Sometimes moving out of your lane isn’t rebellion—it’s taking responsibility for what’s broken. It's not reckless or disrespectful. It's responsible leadership. But, please, for the love of all good things, use your blinker.

I believe in leadership that washes feet, not leadership that hides behind titles. Deference was never meant to silence truth — it was meant to humble power.

“He made Himself nothing, taking the form of a servant.” — Philippians 2

If the Son of God could kneel, surely the rest of us can listen.

2. The Rule of the Mask

“Tone it down.”

I've drunk from that cup, personally and professionally. It left me wanting. So, please, let's drink the strong, well-steeped tea.

Once, I rewrote an email six times, trying to sound “less direct.” It’s a professional sport—writing emails on eggshells that sound polite, mean nothing, lead nowhere, and get nothing done.

That’s the mask.
Polished. Careful. Exhausting. Opticsopticsopticsoptics.
Designed to keep the peace, even if the truth never gets said.

I broke the rule when I stopped performing and started showing up whole — honest, clear, and kind without shrinking.
Not louder. Not harsher. Just real.

Authenticity doesn’t make us unprofessional; it makes us trustworthy.

“He brought me up out of the pit… and set my feet on a rock.” — Psalm 40

I stand on that Rock every morning — emails waiting, tea steeping, grace steady.
That’s where the work begins.

3. The Rule of the Safe Middle

“Don’t rock the boat.”

But what if staying steady means running the ship aground?

I’ve challenged processes, rewritten policy, and asked why accountability ends up over the rail. Funny thing—the ones who avoid it are rarely the ones on deck when the work gets hard.

If “my brand of teamwork is different” shows up in the room, raise the alarm.
Teamwork isn’t proprietary. It’s practiced, or it isn’t.

I’ve seen what happens when people start trading favors for standards, when policies become optional for some and weaponized for others.

Integrity always costs something. Silence costs more.

“Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves.” — Proverbs 31:8

Sometimes that means holding fast when others would rather drift. Policy protects people. That’s the tension—leading with mercy while still honoring the boundaries that keep us safe.

4. The Rule of Bureaucracy

“That’s how it’s always been done.”

Let’s do it better.

I nerd out building systems for a living — real systems, the kind that protect, clarify, and serve.
I can’t stomach fake bureaucracy — the kind that excludes, like Mean Girls, and calls it governance.
You can’t sit with us.

Here’s how you can tell the difference:
If a system exists to protect people, it will invite scrutiny.
If it exists to protect power, it will resist it.

When a system punishes the very people it’s meant to protect, it isn’t malfunctioning — it’s doing exactly what it was designed to do.
That’s when the design has to be reexamined.
Policy should serve people, not the other way around.

Jesus healed on the Sabbath — a direct violation of protocol.
He didn’t dismiss structure; He refused structure that forgot its purpose.

“You have let go of the commands of God and are holding on to human traditions.” — Mark 7:8

And He’s the Mentor I want.

5. The Rule of Emotional Neutrality

“Don’t take it personally. It’s just business.”

Except it’s never just business. It’s people. We deceive ourselves if we think otherwise.

If I had a buck for every time I’ve heard—or even said—“it’s not personal,” I’d be the next billionaire. May I join you, Elon?

Emotional neutrality gets framed as maturity, but more often it’s just distance with a better resume. A way to make hard decisions without staying present for the human cost.

I’ve cried over layoffs (like a few hours ago), prayed over decisions, and carried other people’s heartbreak home in my backpack. I’ve been told to toughen up, but empathy isn’t weakness. It’s witness.

“Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn.” — Romans 12:15

That’s not bad management.
That’s humanity.
It’s what keeps the spreadsheets from swallowing up souls.

6. The Rule of Self-Preservation

“Protect yourself first.”

I heard that just a bit ago. It was kindly meant—self-care dressed up to look like strategy.

But I don’t know how to save myself at someone else’s expense.

I’ve stood up for people who weren’t in the room and paid the price for it. I’ve missed out on opportunities because I refused to play politics. And yes, I went down with my ship. And I'd do it again.

I’d rather leave with integrity than stay with compromise.

“Whoever wants to save his life will lose it.” — Luke 9:24

Self-protection feels safe, but it’s a slow kind of dying. Sacrifice hurts—but it’s how I know I was still leading, not managing. Love always costs more than policy budgets.

7. The Rule of Boxes

“Fit in. Don’t stand out.”

Mama said, “You were never meant to fit in.”

I want to build cultures where process feels like protection, not punishment, where trust is policy. Where people understand the 'why' behind the 'what'.

And yes, I got laid off. Corporate reduction-in-force, they called it. I call it release. Rescue.

Let them have the last word. I’ll take the lesson.

Because forgiveness is freedom, and I still believe people matter more than paperwork.

“Act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly.” — Micah 6:8

These days, mercy feels less like surrender and more like strength. And standing out—staying kind, honest, unshaken—is still the only way I know to lead.

Awake

Corporate America loves to say it wants innovators, but it actually rewards conformity.

You can build calm in the chaos. You can carry both grace and grit.

You can also be angry. You can kick rocks and stamp your feet and shake that fist right at that man. It's ok, do it, get it out - but do it privately. Or call me, I'll listen.

I’m awake now—awake to purpose, to people, to the quiet rebellion of kindness. And I won’t deny the One who pulled me out of the pit and set me right here, sleeves rolled up, still breaking rules for the sake of something real.

I’ve broken a few rules to get here—and I’ll probably break a few more on the way forward. Not out of rebellion, but out of belief. Belief that people matter, that purpose wins, and that grace still builds what hustle can’t.

“Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?” — Isaiah 43:19

The story isn’t over. It’s just getting honest. 🤍