I Apologize for Your Discomfort

There’s a kind of lying in corporate leadership that isn’t called lying. It’s called strategic communication. It’s called confidentiality. It’s called protecting the "organization's" interests, even when the audience is the majority of the organization. But at its core, it’s a performance of truthful deception: the strategic omission of truth, delivered in a tone of calm reassurance.

You’re not supposed to notice.
And if you do, you're expected to understand that you shouldn't have noticed.
Because after all, technically, nothing was untrue.

This kind of institutional dishonesty wears a professional mask. The tone is measured, often therapeutic. It presents itself like an HR Module for Simulated Empathy: polished phrases, soft language, the occasional “I understand your concern” as a substitute for honesty. The goal isn’t to make you safe. It’s to keep you calm.

I’ve lived with depression and PTSD for most of my life, and in middle age, severe anxiety has joined the list. Two days before Christmas, my boss, Frau Wasserfall, caused me a mental health crisis severe enough that I had to take short-term medical leave. I'll talk about that in future posts.

So when the first corporate denial about a rumored acquisition hit my inbox during that leave, I took the bait. The CEO told us this was nothing new. That he always talks to bankers. That these rumors happen all the time. That there was nothing to see.
I believed him, and I dismissed it. Like he told me to.
I was just starting to stabilize. I didn’t want to spiral over a headline.

But the emails kept coming.
First it was nothing.
Then it was “exploration.”
Then came the line: “I know uncertainty can induce anxiety.”

Not: “we mishandled communication.”
Just: “I know you’re anxious. That’s unfortunate.”

More emails followed. Concern was acknowledged. Staff unease was framed as emotional misunderstanding. We were assured that if anything did happen, it would be done in a way that reflected our company values: a sequence of words that I don't see reflected in my experience there.

And then, early this morning was an email.

We’ve made a deal to be acquired.
It was finalized three weeks ago.
We’ve been working on it for months.

I’m calling the buyer Laplander: a large financial entity that will soon own us. They was the clear winner, the best of 20 options. According to leadership, this is cause for excitement. And if we’re not excited yet, they assure us we’ll get there with “time and context.”

I didn’t feel shock. I felt confirmation.

This isn’t my first betrayal.

At a former job that wasn't called The Channel Company at the time, I survived five rounds of layoffs. Each one came with a promise that it was “the last.” The sixth round got me. I was laid off by phone. To receive my severance, I had to sign a non-disparagement agreement. That was 2009, and the statute of limitations has probably passed by now. They described the company as getting “leaner and meaner.” It was the most honest phrase anyone used.

That was my first real lesson: if someone in power tells you not to worry, worry. Anxiety is going to be validated more often than Trust.

I don’t think I’ll be directly affected by this acquisition. My job has been effectively crippled for years, and it carries a backlog of critical work. That’s a longer story, also for future posts.

Today’s post isn’t about outcomes.
It’s about trust.

When I returned from leave and started digging through the hundreds of unread emails, that first missive from our CEO hit differently.
I hadn’t appreciated it at the time, but in hindsight, it was the perfect welcome back: a polished half-truth, delivered in the tone of reassurance, timed perfectly to become irrelevant a few weeks later.

It didn’t just insult my intelligence. It reminded me how stupid I feel every time I believe them.
This is a system of misinformation and denial of the validity of our emotional reactions.

This is gaslighting.