
Getting Too Comfortable
You wake up, wash your face, sit down at your desk. First thing you do?
Open Zoom. Smile. Nod. Pretend to listen.
You think about saying something, but why bother? Nobody remembers it anyway. Your boss will wrap up with the usual “Good input, everyone,” and then move forward with the decision he already made.
You call American workplaces “free.” Sure. Free enough to slowly edge you out until you fade into irrelevance.
You play it safe. You don’t screw things up. Everyone likes you.
Not because you’re brilliant—because you’re harmless.
You’ve become that team member every group wants to keep, but nobody ever wants to promote.
At the beginning, you had ideas. You scribbled impact, leadership, career ladder into neat notes, like the OKRs you wrote in your first year, full of faith.
But now?
You’ve mastered the art of soulless status emails. You know how to nod through a “let’s circle back” and pretend you still have influence. You’ve learned how to swim precisely between “not fired” and “not noticed.”
It’s not that you lack ability.
You’re just afraid.
Afraid that if you finally took a shot, you’d realize you’re not that good after all. Afraid you’d aim at the target and hit nothing but air. So you don’t even shoot.
You call it Zen. It’s really resignation.
You say you don’t want to play the corporate game. Truth is, you know you can’t outshine the self-promoters—those human PowerPoints glowing with fake confidence.
They get promoted. You stay put.
You roll your eyes and mutter, “They’re so fake.” But deep down you’re grinding your teeth, wondering, “Should I have started bragging earlier too?”
Your boss likes you.
Not because you’re excellent.
Because you don’t cause problems.
He looks at your steady delivery, your lack of emotion, your statue-like nodding in meetings, and checks you off mentally: Reliable. Won’t stir trouble.
You ask about promotion.
He tells you, “Budgets are tight. Let’s talk next year.”
Next year, my ass.
Next year you’ll be in the same chair—only the plant on your desk will have been swapped out for a new one.
You call it stability.
It’s really stagnation.
You’re not a rock in the system. You’re a roll of toilet paper—always there to clean up someone else’s mess. And you even console yourself: “At least I still have a job.”
But this “stability” only exists because no one is fighting you for your seat. You’re not irreplaceable. You’re invisible.
The day the company announces a “restructure,” you’ll get that email:
“We thank you for your contributions over the years…”
The cruelest part?
It’s not that you don’t want change.
It’s that you’re too scared of the pain that comes with it.
Scared of looking clumsy.
Scared of failing.
Scared that your effort will be noticed—and dismissed.
Scared of falling, of being seen falling, and of not believing you can get back up.
You won’t die on the battlefield.
You’ll die in that “pretty good” cubicle, where nobody notices your disappearance—because you were already invisible long before you left.
This one’s for everyone stuck in the comfort trap of Big Tech or corporate America:
If you don’t move, you don’t just stay where you are.
You sink.











