Gaslighters and Those Who Get Lit

She said it was just a check-in. On a Monday, I answered a call from my supervisor, who insisted we have a follow-up conversation regarding a past meeting with HR. A little over a month before, I had very courageously—and somewhat impulsively—sent an email to the CEO inquiring about a possible change in departments.

This all started after getting yelled at by staff, parents, and a principal in the weeks prior. Nothing new, just another day in the office—but this normalcy had begun to bother me, hurting my confidence and lowering my morale. So I did what any practical person questioning their role would do: I vented to my work besties over some micheladas. Their consensus? The role was toxic, and I should ask to switch departments.

What I thought was a leap of faith turned out to be a dive to hell. The contents of the email were shared with my supervisor, and she believed I had blindsided her and—she would soon confess—wounded her spirit. My supervisor, a woman of God but not of guidance, preached without commandments and shepherded a flock she rarely tended. She never seemed to have the time to check on her staff—let alone me.

In the email, I shared that her presence was minimal and that there were gaps for issues that felt never ending. There was no clear direction, and I believed my talents would be better placed with another department or the very least supervisor. I did my best not to make it personal and centered the conversation on the role not being the best place for me to flourish—something I was sure ChatGPT had emphasized.

Despite mine and Chat’s careful depiction of my boss’s work habits, the outcome with HR felt unfair. Their assessment? The conflict might not be rooted in poor leadership, but in poor communication. The solution: she needed to check in with me more, and I needed to be more open to her feedback.

So the following Monday—with HR out of sight but my manager very much in mind—she asked to continue the conversation, saying “the loop felt un-closed.”

Our check-in started normally. I went through my updates, then gave her the floor.

Her: “Any challenges you’re facing?”Me (thinking: you). Out loud: “I’m having trouble building culture in my team.”Her: “Don’t you think you might be contributing to that lack of culture? Because—and I just have to be transparent—”

Ah, the word transparent. Corporate code for dressed-up hater talk.

Her: “I don’t feel comfortable creating an action plan for you, because I don’t know where your commitments lie. Honestly, I’ve seen minimal improvement at your schools. Overall, your performance has been poor over the last two years. I didn’t know how to bring it up sooner—your attitude makes me uncomfortable. So can you see how you might be the reason there isn’t culture in your region?”

And at that moment, someone must’ve farted, because all I could smell was straight-up bullshit.

I handled myself as professionally as possible, but inside I was fuming. How could someone who hadn’t checked on me in two years make a fair assessment of my performance? How could a Director avoid correcting their staff’s behavior simply because they were “intimidated by their attitude”? She was baiting me, and it was obvious.

One thing I’ll admit I like about my supervisor: she isn’t that smart. In my view, refusing to give me an action plan didn’t just prove she wasn’t helping me grow—it also exposed major gaps in her leadership.

So, very calmly and with as much poise as I could show, I said:“I see your point. But when culture is modeled for me at the Director’s level, maybe I’ll have a better understanding of what culture looks like in this organization. And I have to be transparent and say: I don’t see the culture in this department.”

She pinched her lips, shook her head, and muttered that she was late for a LACOE training—but that she felt like “we were on to something.”

Yeah. We’re on our way to a lawsuit if you think you’re catching a fish with that weak-ass hook.

She left the meeting and I was left lit from all the gas.

As an Aries, fire is central to my core. I’m molten lava erupting from a volcano when triggered, and I’m the hot coals that cautiously cooks your meal. I’m the wood in the fireplace that keeps you warm, and the spark of ember that can burn the forest down. I’m the sunbeam that breaks through the clouds, and the same concentrated ray that, through a magnifying glass, incinerates whatever lies beneath it. So when this gas got poured over me, an explosion burst inside, as bright as a dying star. I was stunned, yes- but also ignited. This was the verdict on my vulnerable plea for better leadership. If my attitude made her uncomfortable, then it will be my composure that seals the deal. Because when an Aries is alarmed, they don’t retreat. They charge horns-first—and ask questions later.

There are gas lighters and those who get lit. Everyone gets burned sometimes, but if you can take the heat, it’s only a matter of time until you leave the kitchen. Best believe this chef is almost done cooking, and there will be no dessert, thank you very much. Only the sweet taste of a resignation. 

Remember, my fierce Lexicans: a closed mouth doesn’t get fed. Stirring the pot keeps things moving, and when someone tells you to stop, it's because they can’t appreciate the sweet aroma of a well stirred stew. Always advocate for yourself. Always believe in yourself. And if i’m being transparent- don’t let anyone smother your fire.

Stary sexy. Love Lexi <3