My screen is currently mocking me with a ‘Try again in 12 minutes’ lockout message because I managed to type my password wrong 2 times, then 2 more, then a final, desperate time that was definitely not the right string of characters. It is a peculiar kind of digital purgatory that feels suspiciously like my current job. You see, I work in a company that prides itself on having ‘no bosses.’ We are a collective. We are a horizontal plane of brilliant minds, or so the recruitment brochure said when I signed my contract 22 months ago. But as I sit here waiting for my access to be restored, I am realizing that the lack of a formal manager hasn’t actually liberated me. Instead, it has turned every single interaction into a high-stakes game of social poker where the rules are written in invisible ink.

I needed a simple approval this morning for a new financial literacy curriculum-a project I’ve been building for 12 weeks. In a traditional company, I’d go to a Director of Education, present the 42-page syllabus, and get a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’ based on the budget. Here? I had to post it in a Slack channel with 82 members and wait to see which ‘influencer’ reacted first. It’s not about the merit of the work; it’s about the momentum of the emojis. If the person everyone secretly knows is the ‘real’ leader doesn’t give it a thumbs up within 2 minutes, the project essentially dies in the crib. It’s a tyranny of the popular, a high school cafeteria disguised as a revolutionary workplace.

The Currency of Consensus

As Elena J.-C., my life is built on the foundation of financial literacy. I teach people that numbers don’t lie, provided you know where to put the decimal point. In finance, there is a clear hierarchy of priority: debt first, then savings, then investments. It’s structured. It’s predictable. It’s safe. When I transitioned into this ‘flat’ educational startup, I thought I was escaping the stifling weight of middle management. I thought I was entering a space where my expertise would be the only currency that mattered. Instead, I found myself in a world where the currency is ‘cultural fit’ and ‘alignment,’ terms so vague they make my skin crawl.

I remember one specific meeting-or ‘sync,’ as we call them to avoid sounding too corporate-where 12 of us sat in a circle for 72 minutes trying to decide on the color of a landing page. Because no one had the authority to make the call, we circled the drain of consensus until we were all too exhausted to care. We ended up with a shade of grey that literally everyone hated, but it was the only thing no one felt strongly enough about to veto. That is the hidden cost of the flat organization: the slow, agonizing death of excellence by a thousand ‘What do you guys think?’ questions. We are so afraid of appearing hierarchical that we have abandoned the efficiency of expertise.

Lobbying and Opacity Costs

This reminds me of a concept I often teach my students: the cost of opacity. When you don’t know the interest rate on a loan, you’re the one paying for the lender’s lack of transparency. In a flat org, the ‘interest rate’ is the emotional labor you spend trying to figure out who actually holds the keys. There is always a ‘Core Council’ or a ‘Founders’ Circle’-groups that don’t officially exist on the org chart but make 102% of the real decisions behind closed doors. To get anything done, I have to schedule 12 ‘virtual coffees’ with people who have the social capital to push my projects through. I’m not an educator anymore; I’m a lobbyist for my own job.

I find myself craving the cold, hard logic of a spreadsheet. I miss the days when I could look at a chart and know exactly where the buck stopped. It’s the same reason people enjoy the structured risk of something like tgaslot, where the rules are clear, the odds are known, and the outcome is determined by a system you can actually see and understand. There is a comfort in knowing the boundaries of the game you are playing. In my current office, the goalposts are on wheels, and the referee is whoever happens to be the most charismatic person in the Zoom room that day.

The Pitying Smile

Last week, I made a mistake. I admitted that I didn’t understand the ‘strategic direction’ of our latest pivot. In a normal company, a manager would sit me down and explain the 2-year plan. Here, the room went silent. It was as if I’d admitted I didn’t believe in gravity. One of the ‘senior influencers’ (who officially has the same ‘Team Member’ title as I do) looked at me with a pitying smile and said, ‘Maybe you just need to lean into the ambiguity, Elena.’ That’s code for ‘Stop asking questions that make us realize we don’t have a plan.’ I went home and stared at my bank account for 32 minutes, just to feel the grounding sensation of something that actually adds up.

I’ve noticed that the people who thrive in these structures are rarely the most competent. They are the most adaptable. They are the ones who can sniff out the shifting winds of social favor and adjust their sails before anyone else realizes the weather has changed. It’s an exhausting way to live. I’ve seen 22 good people leave this company in the last year, not because they couldn’t do the work, but because they were tired of the guessing games. They wanted to be educators, not politicians.

The Necessity of Structure

[If everyone is responsible, no one is accountable.] There is a deep-seated dishonesty in pretending that we are all equal in a professional setting. We aren’t. Some of us have 22 years of experience; some of us have 2. Some of us are experts in fiscal policy; some of us are experts in making sure the office plants don’t die. By pretending these differences don’t translate into different levels of authority, we do a disservice to everyone. We rob the juniors of clear mentorship and we rob the seniors of the ability to lead effectively. We create a vacuum that is inevitably filled by the most aggressive personalities.

I’m currently looking for a new role. During my interviews, I’ve started asking a very specific question: ‘Who is the person that can tell me my idea is bad and make me stop working on it?’ If the answer is ‘We usually decide things as a team,’ I politely decline. I don’t want a team. I want a leader. I want someone who has the courage to be the ‘bad guy’ so the rest of us can just be the ‘good workers.’ I want a structure that is visible enough to be criticized, rather than a fog that is impossible to navigate.

Clarity Over Freedom

My lockout timer just hit zero. I’m going to try my password again, and this time, I’m going to be very careful. I’m going to use the one I set 82 days ago, back when I still believed that ‘flat’ meant ‘fair.’ It’s funny how a little bit of friction-like a password error or a hidden hierarchy-can make you realize exactly what you value. I value clarity. I value the $122.32 I spent on a management book that told me things I already knew but needed to hear: that someone has to be in charge, or nothing of substance will ever get done.

As I log back in, I see 22 new notifications in the ‘General’ channel. They’re debating the font for the holiday cards. I’m not going to click on it. I’m going to go back to my spreadsheet, where the rows are straight, the columns are labeled, and no one can tell me that a ‘4’ identifies as a ‘2’ just because it feels like it today. I’ll keep teaching my students that assets minus liabilities equals equity. It’s a simple formula, and unlike my office, it doesn’t require a virtual coffee chat to prove it’s true.