The Cost of Working Under Someone Who Couldn’t Lead
Bad leadership doesn’t just affect performance—it affects your nervous system.
An Art of Drinking Water reflection · 5 minute read
Having a bad boss doesn’t always look like yelling or cruelty.
Sometimes it looks like inconsistency.
Like moving expectations.
Like silence where guidance should be.
I learned that the hard way.
I showed up ready to work, to contribute, to grow. I paid attention. I cared. And slowly, I began to doubt myself—not because the work was wrong, but because the environment was.
Feedback arrived late or not at all.
Decisions were made without context.
Praise was scarce, criticism vague.
And somehow, I was always adjusting.
I learned how to read moods instead of policies.
How to anticipate reactions instead of focusing on the work.
How to stay quiet when clarity might have made things worse.
Bad leadership doesn’t just affect performance.
It affects your nervous system.
I noticed the tension before meetings.
The way my stomach dropped when emails came in.
The constant second-guessing—Did I miss something? Did I do something wrong?
Working under someone who couldn’t lead taught me how easy it is to internalize dysfunction.
I started carrying responsibility that wasn’t mine.
Fixing problems I didn’t create.
Absorbing stress that flowed downhill without consent.
Coworkers didn’t always help.
Some competed instead of collaborated.
Some stayed silent to stay safe.
Some learned how to align themselves upward at the cost of those beside them.
I stopped trusting the room.
Not because I lacked confidence—but because trust requires consistency, and there wasn’t any.
People say, Just focus on your job.
But your job doesn’t exist in isolation.
It exists inside systems.
Inside relationships.
Inside power dynamics that either support you—or slowly erode you.
Bad management taught me this truth:
If you’re constantly confused, bracing, or apologizing for things you don’t understand, the problem may not be your performance.
It may be the leadership.
Water taught me something here.
Water doesn’t flourish in containers that crack under pressure.
It doesn’t blame itself for leaking when the structure fails.
It moves toward environments where flow is possible.
Eventually, I stopped asking how to survive the situation
and started asking what staying was costing me.
My confidence.
My health.
My sense of worth.
Leaving wasn’t an act of defiance.
It was an act of care.
Now, when I enter new workspaces, I pay attention to different things.
How feedback is given.
How mistakes are handled.
How people speak when no one is watching.
I no longer confuse chaos with challenge
or cruelty with strength.
Because leadership isn’t about control.
It’s about creating conditions where people can do their best work without losing themselves in the process.
And coworkers—managers included—are not supposed to feel like obstacles you must navigate around to stay whole.
Work should not require constant self-defense.
If you are working under someone who makes you doubt your reality, shrink your voice, or carry what isn’t yours, hear this:
You are not weak for feeling it.
You are not difficult for naming it.
And you are not failing for wanting better.
Sometimes the healthiest thing you can do
is move toward a different environment.
Not angrily.
Not loudly.
But like water—
quietly choosing a path that allows you to flow again.