My name is Lauren, I’m 34 years old, and I live in Madison, Wisconsin. I used to think compliments at work were rare gifts—little confirmations that you were doing something right. I don’t think that anymore. The compliment came during a team meeting. My boss smiled and said, “Lauren is incredibly dependable. If something needs to be done, she’ll take care of it.” People nodded. A few smiled at me. I felt that brief, warm lift that comes with being seen. What I didn’t notice was what came next. He added, “That’s why we can always count on her to handle things without much oversight.” Everyone laughed lightly. I laughed too. Within a week, my workload doubled.
Tasks that used to rotate were quietly reassigned to me. Last-minute requests landed on my desk because I was “so good under pressure.” Projects without clear ownership somehow became mine. When I asked about priorities, my boss reminded me—kindly—that I was trusted more than most. The compliment had turned into a leash. I started staying late. Saying yes automatically. Covering gaps no one else wanted. In meetings, my boss praised my reliability again, using it as proof that the system worked. Privately, he dismissed my concerns as stress I needed to “manage better.” The cruel part wasn’t the work. It was the framing.
If I struggled, it meant I wasn’t living up to the compliment. If I asked for help, I was betraying the image he’d built of me. My reliability became the justification for my exhaustion. The moment I understood what was happening came during a one-on-one. I told him I was overloaded and asked for redistribution. He smiled and said, “This is why I compliment you—you can handle more.” That wasn’t praise. That was permission. Permission to keep pushing until I broke. I stopped agreeing in the moment. I asked for timelines in writing. I documented requests. I declined tasks that weren’t aligned with my role. Each boundary was met with surprise, then subtle irritation. The compliments stopped. So did the extra work.
A month later, my boss told me I seemed “less flexible.” I told him I was focused on sustainability. He didn’t like that word. I learned that compliments can be currency—and sometimes, traps. They sound positive, but they define you in a way that benefits someone else. They narrow your options while pretending to expand your value. I didn’t quit. Not yet. But I stopped mistaking praise for support. I stopped believing that being indispensable was the same as being respected. And I started measuring success by something quieter: whether my workday ended with energy left to live my life. That compliment didn’t motivate me. It revealed the intention hiding behind it.