The workplace demands more than just labor — it demands performance.
“What are your weekend plans, Victoria?” my manager asked, coffee mug in hand. Her smile carried the expectation of enthusiastic sharing, of keeping up our daily performance of workplace intimacy.
I had played this scene before. The script called for something upbeat — maybe a home project, maybe brunch — then a return question about her weekend. The back-and-forth was so automatic it barely registered anymore.
But that morning, something snapped. Exhausted from a week of pretending to care about coworkers’ personal lives while scrambling to meet deadlines, I went off script.
“I don’t share my weekend plans at work anymore,” I said. “But I can update you on the client deliverable.”
Her smile flickered. The silence stretched, thick with broken social convention. I felt two things at once: freedom and fear. I had just violated a rule I didn’t even know existed until I broke it.
When work becomes theater
The corporate world demands performances that go far beyond actual job descriptions. Every day brings a new scene: the engaged participant in team-building exercises, the enthusiastic birthday well-wisher, the eager attendee at “optional” happy hours. Everyone playing their part in a staged production of workplace connection.
In meetings, I watched my colleagues perfect their roles. Sarah from accounting mastered the art of interested head tilts. Mark in sales had a collection of perfectly timed chuckles. I had my own specialty — asking follow-up questions about children’s activities I didn’t care about.
It all took energy. More than anyone acknowledged.
What started as politeness turned into a full-time performance, where even the smallest breaks in character — declining an invitation, skipping an office birthday — felt like professional risks.
The myth of workplace family
“We’re more than colleagues. We’re family!” the CEO declared at every all-hands meeting.
This sentiment echoed through team-building retreats and holiday parties, asking for emotional investment while keeping rigid hierarchies intact. The contradiction made my head hurt.
Especially when the layoffs came.
The same “family” that sent care packages for birthdays had no problem escorting employees out with a cardboard box when budget cuts rolled in. The message was clear: the workplace “family” only existed as long as it was profitable.
The forced intimacy wasn’t about connection. It was about extracting more emotional labor without paying for it.
Breaking character
The moment of clarity came during a mandatory virtual happy hour. Between staged laughter and awkward conversation, I noticed my colleague Tom enthusiastically nodding along while secretly responding to emails.
I messaged him privately.
“This is absurd.”
“Complete waste of time,” he replied. “But what choice do we have?”
That question stuck with me. Because it wasn’t just him. It was all of us. Going through the motions. Pretending we wanted to be there.
I started noticing the cracks everywhere.
A coworker whose desk was covered in framed photos of his kids, but who never made it home for dinner. A project manager who showed up to every happy hour but got passed over for a promotion. The intern who took the social bonding so seriously that she cried in the break room after realizing she hadn’t been invited to a team lunch.
The performance wasn’t just exhausting. It was warping how people saw their own value.
The cost of authenticity
When I stopped performing, the consequences came quickly.
My mid-year review included vague phrases like “limited participation in team social activities” and “opportunities for relationship building.” Every comment was a warning: technical excellence wasn’t enough.
“Your work is exceptional,” my manager said, “but your peers find you… distant.”
“I’m paid to deliver results,” I said. “Not to discuss my weekend plans.”
She sighed, like I had said something sad. Like I was missing out on something vital.
A few months later, I was passed over for a leadership role. The feedback? Concerns about my ability to “build team morale.”
That one stung.
Because even though I knew the game, even though I had willingly stepped off the stage, I still wanted to believe that the work should be enough. That results should outweigh optics. That competence should matter more than the ability to make people feel warm and fuzzy over coffee.
I had made a choice, and I believed in it. But believing in something doesn’t make it easy.
Professional without pretense
The strangest outcome of quitting the act? My workplace relationships actually improved.
Without the forced small talk, the interactions that remained felt more honest. A junior developer approached me after a meeting.
“I appreciate how you keep discussions focused on work,” she said. “It makes me feel like my time matters.”
Others started following my lead. Meetings became more efficient. Conversations more direct. The work? Stronger than ever.
But the pressure to conform never disappeared. Social performance was still woven into career advancement, making authenticity feel like a gamble.
The biggest challenge wasn’t external. It was internal.
Because despite the relief of stepping away from the act, there were moments — after a team lunch I wasn’t invited to, after watching a peer get promoted — that doubt crept in. Was the trade-off worth it? Had I gone too far?
Rewriting workplace social scripts
The shift to remote and hybrid work cracked open the illusion. The pandemic proved that teams could function — often more effectively — without forced bonding.
And yet, old habits die hard. Even in digital spaces, the pressure to perform remained. Enthusiastic Slack messages. Personal updates in team channels. An expectation to keep the act going, even through a screen.
My decision to opt out sparked quiet conversations. Some colleagues felt relief, grateful for permission to drop the act. Others worried about the career consequences of being seen as “not a team player.”
A senior engineer stopped me after a meeting.
“I respect what you’re doing,” he said, lowering his voice. “But, be careful. People notice.”
Of course, they noticed.
The workplace script hasn’t changed. The consequences of breaking character are still real.
The next time my manager stopped by my desk, she didn’t ask about my weekend.
“Do you have the client report ready, Victoria?”
“Yes,” I said. “Want to review it now?”
The performance was over. The work continued.
