How I Got Fired for the Unforgivable Sin of Competence
Most people get fired for the classics. Me? I got fired because I worked too much. A cautionary tale for anyone who dares to actually do their job.
How I Got Fired for the Unforgivable Sin of Competence
Most people get fired for the classics. Embezzlement, sleeping with the boss’s spouse, or using the conference room for a fight club. You know, reasonable things. Me? Oh no. My story is a cautionary tale for anyone who dares to actually do their job.
I got fired because I worked too much. Yes. Fired. For. Overproductivity.
It sounds like a humble-brag on LinkedIn—you know, the ones that start with “I care too much”—but this is real. I committed the cardinal sin of modern organizational politics: I tried to make things work, rather than just looking like I was working.
Chapter One: Schrödinger’s KPI
Here is the scene: I am the enthusiastic HR head, naive enough to believe that "organization" is a good thing. I spent weeks building a system. I trained people. I created analysis sheets. My team was actually happy. We were a well-oiled machine using Google Drive, where documents actually live.
Naturally, this was a threat to national security.
The curveball came in hot: “Where are your tasks on Discord?”
See, I had everything organized. Color-coded. Accessible. But apparently, in this organization, if a task isn’t lost in a chaotic stream of memes, anime gifs, and pings on Discord, it doesn’t exist.
What I Should Have Done: Clearly, I misunderstood the assignment. I shouldn't have focused on efficiency. I should have engaged in Performative Productivity. Instead of quietly finishing the work, I should have logged onto Discord every 15 minutes to announce, "I am currently opening a PDF. Please hold your applause." I should have tagged the entire server to announce that I had successfully bolded a font in row 4, column C. Because in their world, work isn't about the output; it's about the noise you make while doing it. If you build a house but don't scream about every brick you lay, is it really a house? According to them, no. It’s just a pile of unauthorized wood.
Chapter Two: The Audacity of Solutions
My next crime was even worse: I fixed a problem.
The tech committee had ghosted us for months (classic behavior). We needed a system. So, despite not having a "License to Code," I pulled an all-nighter, wrote the script, and delivered a working product.
I expected a, “Wow, thanks for saving us!” What I got was the corporate equivalent of a hiss: “Who gave you permission?”
What I Should Have Done: I see my error now. I acted with "initiative." Disgusting. The correct protocol would have been to schedule a pre-meeting to discuss the possibility of a meeting. Then, we should have formed a sub-committee to draft a "Request for Solution" form. This form would then need to be sent via carrier pigeon to the Tech Lead, who is currently on a spiritual sabbatical. We should have waited six to eight weeks for a rejection, appealed the rejection, and then—and only then—allowed the department to crash and burn in a blaze of glory. That is the "process." Fixing the hole in the sinking ship is rude to the people whose job it is to stare at the water rising.
Chapter Three: The Vampire Shift
Then came the deadlines.
I would get pings at 11:00 PM: “Hey, need this done. Deadline is tomorrow morning.”
Ah, yes. Because clearly, I exist in a state of cryogenic stasis, thawed out only to serve the Board’s midnight whim. I am not a human; I am an NPC in their quest line.
When I dared to ask, “Could we perhaps schedule these tasks during the daylight hours utilized by the rest of the species?” I was told: “Stop delaying tasks.”
What I Should Have Done: I should have groveled. I should have replied, "Thank you, Oh Great Ones, for bestowing this blessing of sleep deprivation upon me." I should have realized that their lack of planning constitutes my emergency. The correct response was to cancel my life, chug three Red Bulls, and deliver a mediocre product at 4 AM just to prove my "loyalty." Because nothing says "good leadership" like assigning tasks at midnight that they won't even read until noon the next day.
Chapter Four: "Support" (A Concept)
In theory, a Board exists to guide you. In reality, my Board operated like the villain council in a dystopian YA novel.
Their favorite hobby was the Public Ambush. They’d interrupt my sessions to question my methods in front of my own team, trying to undress my authority. They’d casually suggest my ideas weren’t “aligned” (the corporate word for “we didn’t think of it, so we hate it”).
But here is the punchline: My team didn’t buy it. My 17 members looked at the Board with the polite confusion usually reserved for a drunk uncle at a wedding. The Board tried to paint me as the villain, but my team was too busy actually enjoying their work to notice.
What I Should Have Done: I should have been terrible. If I had been mediocre, the Board would have loved me. If I had been confused, they would have felt smart explaining things to me. But by being competent, I made them look bad.
Chapter Five: The Relativity of Time (and Linux)
This chapter is my personal favorite because it involves math. And as we know, math is the enemy of incompetence.
It was the summer training. The event finished a staggering 100 minutes late. Naturally, the Board looked for a scapegoat, and their eyes landed on me. The accusation: “The event ran late because HR was slow with the attendee entry.”
Let’s look at the instant replay, shall we? My team was deployed like Navy SEALs. We were on the registration line at 11:59 AM—exactly one minute early. We were 12 members deep: 9 on the "registration war front" entering codes like human lasers engravers, and 3 inside organizing seating with surgical precision.
The only reason we were only one minute early? Because the auditorium wasn’t ready. We were literally waiting for permission to let people in.
But here is the kicker: Our database logs—hard, cold, unarguable data—showed that the very last attendee entered only 7 minutes late. And that wasn't because we were slow; it was because he arrived 7 minutes late.
So, let’s do the math: The event was 100 minutes late. HR accounted for, at maximum, 7 minutes of "delay" (which was actually just a late student). 100 - 7 = 93 minutes.
Where did those 93 minutes go? Oh, I remember. They went to the "Tech" team. The same team that spent the first hour fighting a microphone that apparently had a vendetta against them. The same team that decided to run the presentation on Linux without knowing how to use Linux, crashed and burned, and had to switch operating systems mid-session.
Do you know how long it takes to realize you don’t know Linux, panic, reboot, and load Windows while an audience watches you sweat? apparently, about 93 minutes.
But yes. It was definitely the registration line.
What I Should Have Done: I should have realized that my 7 minutes of entry time caused a tear in the space-time continuum that dilated time for the tech team. I should have personally taught the Tech Committee how to use a computer before the event. I should have apologized for not possessing telekinetic powers to fix the microphone from the registration desk. Clearly, the fact that they couldn't figure out a faulty microphone was a direct result of me entering codes too efficiently.
Chapter Six: The Grand Exit (The Speed of Bureaucracy)
And then, the Grand Finale.
They called me up with the faux-sympathy of a vet putting down a golden retriever. “You can say goodbye to your members before you leave. We’re generous like that.”
A farewell tour! How kind. I felt like a gladiator being allowed to wave to the lions before being eaten.
I didn’t fight it. I just asked to be removed from the groups. And let me tell you—for an organization that took months to approve a simple project, they managed to ban me from the server in under four seconds.
It was the most efficient thing they did all season.
What I Should Have Done: I should have realized that efficiency is a resource they hoard only for firings. If they applied the same speed to their actual projects (or switching operating systems) that they applied to kicking me out, we would have colonized Mars by now.
The Verdict
So there you have it. Fired for the high crime of Competence.
They said I wasn't doing my role. They were right. I was doing my role, plus the tech role, plus the training role, plus the therapist role for a team demoralized by politics.
The Lesson: If you want to survive in a place like that, do not build. Do not solve. Do not excel. Sit quietly in the corner, post a GIF in the Discord server once a day, and wait for the ship to sink. That is called "being a team player."
Epilogue
Does it sting? Sure. It hurts to be painted as the villain in a story you wrote. But I sleep easy (mostly because I no longer have tasks due at 11 PM).
My team knows the truth. The work speaks for itself. And if being "overproductive" is a fireable offense, then lock me up and throw away the key.
Just remember: When an organization says, "We’re a family here," they’re absolutely right. It’s just that they’re the Succession family, and you’re the one getting thrown off the yacht for cleaning the deck too well.
UPDATE: The Civil War and the Embargo on Competence
So, what happens after you exile your hardest workers? Simple: You start a civil war.
After my "firing," the competent people did what sensible refugees do—we migrated. We moved to another student activity (MSP) and built it up to greatness. On Welcome Day, the contrast was brutal. Our booth was swarming with freshmen, drawn in by our history and our PR.
Meanwhile, the old guard (OSC) was struggling. Their PR team had some newbie—members I was originally supposed to train.
They looked at our crowd. Eventually, they walked over to me, wide-eyed, and asked: “How do you do it? How do you retain these circles and keep everyone engaged?”
Now, I am a benevolent exile. I told them, "Tell you what. Come with me for the next ushering wave. We will split the registering members 50/50 between us. I’ll show you the ropes." A fair deal. A generous deal.
But then, their new President appeared. She walked up to me and said the sentence that perfectly encapsulates their entire philosophy: “Can you just not help our members?”
I was shocked. I was offering free labor. I was offering to save them from embarrassment. But then I realized: Not giving a f*** is actually much easier than helping.
So I smiled and said, "Okay."
The next day, one of their members came running to me, asking for help with a situation. I channeled my inner petty bureaucrat, raised my voice just enough for dramatic effect, and said: “NAHHH. Your President explicitly told me not to help you. Go ask her instead.”
Later, a friend of mine from their side (we’re all friends personally; everyone actually likes me, which drives leadership crazy) came over desperate for electricity. We had a power splitter; they didn’t. He reached for the plug. I stopped him. “Remove that ID badge first.”
He looked confused. “Why?” “Because,” I said, “if they see you plugging into my power strip while wearing that badge, they will manufacture a soap opera about it. Remove the Mark of Shame, and you may have electricity.”
He took it off immediately. Even he knew.
UPDATE 2: The Spin Machine
You would think that after losing their best people, watching us succeed, and failing to run basic tech, they would maybe—just maybe—look inward and fix their mistakes.
Nope. They are still trash-talking us.
They are trying to spin the story, painting us as the villains who abandoned ship, rather than the crew that was thrown overboard. But here is the reality: You can trash talk all you want, but you can’t spin-doctor a microphone that doesn’t work, and you can’t gaslight a Linux terminal into working when you don’t know the commands.
Keep talking. We’ll be over here, enjoying our electricity and our competent entry lines.
UPDATE 3: The Sanctuary (Or: How to Actually Run a Committee)
And this brings us to today.
I am now the Head of the Resonance committee at MSP. And let me tell you, the culture shock is real. I am actually growing without involving myself in weird, manufactured drama.
It turns out, you can run an organization without treating it like a season of Game of Thrones. I have a Board around me that—get this—actually gives me feedback. Constructive feedback! When I fumble (because I am human, unlike the perfect robots the old place wanted), they don't plan my execution; they help me up.
The team spirit is something else. I look at my members and I don't see "KPIs" or "Discord Tasks"—I see people I genuinely want to succeed. I see the future leaders who will take over after me.
We are building something real here. We aren't just scanning tickets or fighting with microphones; we are going to reshape how AI looks in this whole university, Insha'Allah.
So, thank you to the old place for firing me. It was the best career advice you ever gave me.