Officially, my job is a “receptionist”. But unofficially? I’m the office therapist, emotional support professional, and a crisis manager, with no extra credit, a couch, or an hourly rate.
It starts innocently. Someone swings by the front desk to grab a LaCroix. Then they linger. Next thing I know, they’re leaning on the counter, eyes wide with panic, whispering, “Do you think I’m bad at my job?”
Cue soft background music and a sympathetic nod from me, the unofficial in-house counsellor of this lovely, caffeinated circus.
Over the months, I’ve become a confidante for everyone from interns to execs. I’ve heard it all:
- “I think I bombed that sprint review.”
- “Why did my manager like my meme in Slack but not my actual idea?”
- “I’m dating someone from RevOps, is that HR-legal or just emotionally risky?”
- “Sometimes I feel like I’m just. faking it”
Spoiler alert: we all are, faking it. But I’ve learned not to say everything out loud. Instead, I hand over a granola bar, murmur something positive and supportive and redirect them to the nap pod.
There are no protocols for this part of the job. No training or any manual on what to do when a product manager starts tearing up over customer churn. No Slack channel for “emotional triage”. And yet, somehow I’m the one offering tissues and unsolicited life advice between FedEx deliverers and refilling snack drawers.
Even the founder’s not immune. One day, he wandered over, stared into the distance, and said, “Do you ever feel like time is fake and we’re all just building dashboards that no one reads?” I offered him trail mix and changed the subject to calendars.
The irony of all this? I’m not even paid to do this. I earn a decent salary, but the therapy aspect? Pure bonus work, every day. I didn’t go to school for psychology, I went for theatre, which turns out to be excellent preparation for smiling calmly when someone has a meltdown over a broken Slack integration.
I don’t mind this, there’s something sweet about being the emotional gravity in a place that otherwise spins at hyper speed every day. Between the chaos of fundraising, broken deploys, and back-to-back standups, I’m the one common point. The person you vent to before your 1:1. The one who knows your lunch order, your coffee preferences, and maybe even your breakup timeline.
So, I dont write code. But I listen, I care, I empathise, and it’s the most valuable thing in any start-up.