The cruelest trick corporate America ever pulled was convincing us that ‘unlimited’ actually meant ‘less.’
Jenna used to light up when she talked about wine. Every few months, she’d return from European vineyards with stories of her favorite merlot and a bottle to share with our team.
On those afternoons, our sterile conference room transformed as she uncorked a bottle from Tuscany or Bordeaux. We’d pause our usual talk of deadlines and deliverables, passing around tiny plastic cups, listening to her describe sun-warmed hills and ancient cellars.
For an hour, we weren’t resources to be maximized — we were human beings, sharing in life’s pleasures.
Then our company introduced “unlimited PTO,” and Jenna’s wine-tasting trips stopped.
“It’s different now,” she told me over lunch, pushing her salad around the plate. “There’s pressure not to take time off. My boss hasn’t taken a day in six months. How would it look if I did?”
The sparkle in her eyes had dimmed, replaced by a resigned acceptance I was starting to see everywhere in our office.
I should have recognized the warning signs when the recruiter first pitched me the policy.
“In addition to company holidays, employees can take as much time off as they like with full pay,” she’d said, her voice bright with rehearsed enthusiasm. “You’ll love it. It’s our most popular perk.”
Without hesitation, I signed the offer letter.
I wish I hadn’t.
The reality behind the perk
In tech, we pride ourselves on disrupting outdated systems, on finding clever solutions to entrenched problems. But sometimes our innovations are just old constraints dressed in new language.
Unlimited PTO sounds revolutionary until you understand how it actually functions — not as freedom, but as a subtle form of control.
I started noticing the patterns in my first month. The way my colleagues’ voices dropped when mentioning upcoming time off, like they were confessing a shameful secret.
The apologetic emails announcing brief absences, always cushioned with promises to “stay connected” or “check in regularly.” The subtle nods of approval when someone canceled their vacation to meet a deadline.
The data confirmed what I was witnessing. Forbes reports that workers with unlimited PTO take an average of 10 days off per year — seven days fewer than those with traditional vacation plans.
In my office, even that felt generous. I watched my teammates accumulate dark circles under their eyes and persistent coughs, wearing their exhaustion like armor against accusations of being uncommitted.
In our “work-hard-play-hard” environment (a phrase that makes me cringe as much as “work family”), the absence of defined vacation days created an unspoken competition: who could work the most without breaking?
The winners answered emails at midnight, joined calls from their kids’ soccer games, and humble-bragged about their unused vacation days. The losers? They were the ones who dared to disconnect.
The cruel irony? This “perk” was never designed for our benefit. According to CBS News Marketwatch, unlimited vacation policies boost corporate bottom lines by reducing vacation days taken and eliminating the liability of unused vacation days on company books.
It’s a masterful sleight of hand — transform a basic worker right into a privilege that most are too afraid to use.
Breaking free
My awareness came gradually. I’d watch my coworkers plan their lives around release schedules, postpone doctor’s appointments for sprint planning, skip their kids’ recitals for client meetings.
Each small sacrifice seemed reasonable in isolation. But together, they painted a picture of lives slowly shrinking to fit within the margins of workplace expectations.
Something in me rebelled.
Last year, I took eight weeks off.
The first time I submitted a two-week vacation request, my fingers trembled over the keyboard. I spent hours drafting the email, justifying my audacity in asking for what previous generations of workers considered a basic right.
The second time was easier. By the third time, I’d developed a mantra: “I am not asking for permission to live my life.”
Those eight weeks were a revelation. I spent mornings reading novels in sunlit cafes, the taste of coffee lingering on my tongue, no laptop humming nearby. I hiked trails I’d been too busy to explore, my phone silent in my backpack. In the evenings, I cooked elaborate meals without watching the clock, relearning the pleasure of unhurried creation.
My mind, usually cluttered with project deadlines and meeting schedules, gradually cleared. I remembered what it felt like to be fully present, to exist beyond my productivity metrics and performance reviews.
My colleagues’ reactions ranged from barely concealed judgment to what I suspect was jealousy. I’ve overheard whispers about my “lack of commitment” and speculation about my career prospects.
Even my family questions my choices. “Aren’t you worried about getting fired?” my mother asks regularly.
The truth? Of course I’m worried. I’d be naive not to recognize that my refusal to play by unwritten rules could affect my career advancement or make me a target during the next round of layoffs. But I’m more worried about the cost of not taking this stand.
Because that’s what watching Jenna abandon her passion taught me — when we surrender to these subtle forms of corporate control, we lose pieces of ourselves. The sparkle dims. The joy fades.
We become smaller versions of ourselves, all in service of an institution that, despite its “work family” rhetoric, would replace us without hesitation.
Looking forward
Last week, rumors started circulating about changes to our vacation policy. “Due to abuse of the system,” the whispers say, we might return to defined time off. Unlimited vacation days may soon be a thing of the past.
Maybe I helped speed its demise. Maybe my refusal to conform, to accept that “unlimited” actually meant “less,” contributed to its downfall. If so, I’m not sorry. Sometimes systems need to break before they can be rebuilt into something more honest.
The other day, I caught Jenna looking at flights to France. She quickly minimized the window when I walked by, but I saw her smile — a ghost of that old sparkle. It reminded me why this matters.
We’re not just fighting for vacation days; we’re fighting for the right to remain fully human in a system designed to treat us as resources.
Until then, I’ll keep taking my eight weeks. I’ll keep protecting my right to rest, to explore, to exist beyond my productivity. I’ll keep choosing the full experience of my life over the hollow pride of perfect attendance.
Because unlimited PTO isn’t actually about time off — it’s about power. Who has it, who surrenders it, and who dares to reclaim it.
I choose to reclaim mine.
