Did you know that I used a fake name for most of my professional life?
Humour me for a moment, scroll up and read my name aloud. Slowly, if you must. I’ll wait.
Strange, isn’t it? You’ve already forgotten it. It’s long and jagged, and it doesn’t roll off the tongue so much as trip over it. And yet, it’s mine. But for years, I’d cringe when I heard it. Not for lack of pride, but because it connected me to a company so suffocating, and professionally stifling, that God only knows where I’d be if I’d repudiated it sooner.
So why the fake name? Because though I’d escaped, they still acted as if I was theirs to degrade and defame, but it’s difficult to tarnish another’s reputation when yours is in ruins. Theirs was so irredeemable that mere distance wouldn’t suffice. I had to erase any trace that I had ever been there.
I can still vividly see their incredulous faces when I told them I was moving on. The sheer audacity of me. I was their golden boy, a prodigy with all the promise and talent that a broker could exploit and take credit for. But as it turns out, if you threaten someone’s job enough times, eventually, they’ll save you the trouble.
Irony truly is the highest form of pleasure.
So, here I am, fully reconstituted, and fashionably coherent after a decade-long recovery from a soul-sucking pool party of a job. I’ve reclaimed my name in all its glorious verbosity because, in the end, it was never theirs to take. And as I watched them shrink in the rearview mirror, until they finally collapsed under the weight of their own toxicity, I found myself thinking of those still trapped in that situation, waiting for an escape they might not yet know exists.
If that’s you, or someone you know, understand that you don’t owe your success to people who thrive on keeping you small. They will gladly manipulate you for your natural talents and demand you be grateful for it. But here’s a thought, if you removed yourself from that business, would it still thrive? Would it even survive? Maybe they’re the ones who should be grateful.
Not long ago, during one of my training courses, a student discreetly pulled me aside and begged me to “get him out of there”. He felt trapped, guilted by an employer who had convinced him he should be thankful for the poor treatment he was lucky enough to receive. Could he not see the door a few feet away? Of course he could, but so conditioned was he to his gilded cage that even freedom starts to feel like betrayal.
Would you believe I caught him sleeping in the corner an hour later? So, you long for an escape, but not at the expense of nap time.
Even I, green-eyed as I am, used to stew in subversive thoughts. I would stare wistfully from my corner desk as visitors were paraded through the factory, wondering if I’d ever ascend to such a privilege. Could they hear my thoughts? I better get back to work.
That said, leaving didn’t magically fix everything. How could it? Years of suppression had left me cautious, content to orbit the industry as an installer instead of commanding my own space. But then, opening my own shop would only validate the very betrayal they feared when they screamed me out the door in the first place.
Should I thank them? There is no finer insult than repaying one’s oppressors with gratitude for their unintended generosity. I met their legal threats with sarcasm, and the industry welcomed me anyway. So rich was I with opportunity that I forgot about the mud in my shoes, while my old bosses scrambled to build their walls higher and tightened their grip on those that stayed behind.
There isn’t really much support for employees in our industry, is there? No unions or safety nets, just organisations like ASGA that cater to owners.
Come to think of it, how well do you treat your staff? Would they be honest with you if you asked? How quiet does it get when you enter the room?
These days it’s nearly impossible to hide the broader industry from your staff. How can you? Why would you? Companies now openly bid for talent, luring workers with better pay and shorter hours. A marketplace for workers certainly has its downsides, but overall, it’s a beautiful thing to see.
A customer of mine recently told me about a new club they’ve started that welcomes people from all sides of the industry. It’s a quarterly meet-up in Perth where they can talk shop and foster a healthier, more interconnected industry where no one gets left behind. It’s a small step, but a meaningful one.
So, do you remember my name? It’s fine if you don’t. What about your name?
How does it feel when you hear it? Does it carry weight, or is it only spoken when there’s blame to assign? Maybe you’ve stopped noticing, or caring.
I know the feeling because I’ve lived it. For years, my name wasn’t mine to use freely. It was tied to a place that didn’t deserve it. And though I’ve reclaimed it and begun using it openly, and without apology, I still feel a sting when I hear it in full. Some wounds were never meant to heal, but would it help if it did? You might not find me nearly as entertaining (or insufferable) if they had.
If this hits uncomfortably close to home, you already know why this matters. Your name belongs to you. And if they truly respected you, they’d say it properly.
As for the rest of us? Let’s create the kind of culture where no one feels trapped, abused, or forgotten. Because 10 years from now, I want someone else to be writing this story, and I want it to end even better than mine.
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Still stuck? You can ask me a question here. No pretenses or judgement, just honest feedback.
