Floor Seven

The elevator to Floor Seven was always slow — a mechanical metaphor, Dani thought, for the way her job had crept into her bones.

When she first walked into Halstrom & Co. three years ago, she was fresh out of university, still carrying the scent of idealism and the belief that ambition alone could shield her from burnout. She wore crisp blazers and carried a notebook full of goals: lead a project by year one, earn a raise by year two, become irreplaceable by year three.

Now, in year three, Dani had the title she wanted — Senior Project Coordinator — and a desk by the window. But her shoulders sagged with a tiredness she hadn’t expected so soon. She no longer carried the notebook. Instead, her days were ruled by Outlook alerts, her coffee was consumed cold, and her smile was mostly muscle memory.

The job had changed her. Or maybe it had revealed her — the parts she didn’t want to see.

At first, she’d been praised for her dedication. She answered emails at midnight. She volunteered for thankless tasks. She skipped vacations with the casual confidence of someone who thought rest was optional.

But the office applauded that kind of behavior. Her boss, Gareth, once smiled and said, “You’re a machine,” as if it were a compliment. And maybe it was — in a place where people were parts, not people.

Then came *The Incident* — capital T, capital I — though no one called it that out loud.

Halstrom & Co. had landed a massive deal with a tech client, and Dani had been assigned the account. The timeline was brutal. The pressure, worse. She lived at her desk for eight weeks. She missed her sister’s birthday, canceled a date that had potential, and once cried in a stairwell at 2 a.m. over a missing spreadsheet formula.

But she pulled it off. The client was thrilled. Gareth high-fived her. There were rumors of a promotion.

And then— Layoffs.

Not for her. But for Grace, the soft-spoken admin who’d worked there for 12 years. For Luis, the cheerful team lead who brought in homemade empanadas. For Ravi, who just had a baby.

They were let go in under five minutes. No notice. No farewell. Just "thank you" and escorted exits.

The rest of them — the ones left behind — were expected to carry on. Smiling. Performing. Clapping at Monday meetings like nothing had changed.

But something *had* changed.

Dani noticed it in small ways. Fewer people stayed late. Laughter in the break room faded. Eye contact grew scarce. And Dani, who once wore her ambition like armor, began to question if it was worth the dents.

One evening, she stayed late — not to work, but to think. Floor Seven was quiet at night. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, and the skyline blinked through the windows. She stared at her reflection in the glass. Her eyes looked older. Her jaw was tense.

She thought about Grace, about how kindness hadn’t saved her job. She thought about Gareth, who’d told Dani she was "next in line," as if survival was a promotion.

And she thought about the version of herself that used to believe in balance. That used to write poetry. That used to go hiking on Sundays just to feel small beneath the sky.

She’d traded that version for the job. Not in one moment, but in many small ones — the skipped dinners, the silenced phone calls, the swallowed opinions.

That night, Dani made a list. Not of goals, but of *lines* — boundaries she swore she’d start drawing:

* No more emails after 8 p.m.

* Weekends belong to me.

* If I stay late, it’s because I choose to — not because I’m scared to leave.

* I will not glorify exhaustion.

* I am not a machine.

The next morning, she didn’t resign. That would have been easy. Instead, she showed up differently.

She left at 5:30. She said “no” to a task that wasn’t hers. She started eating lunch outside, alone, with her phone on silent. She spoke up in a meeting — not to impress, but to disagree. A small thing. But her voice shook, and she didn’t apologize for it.

At first, Gareth raised an eyebrow. But Dani didn’t flinch. Others noticed. A few even followed suit.

She didn’t fix the system. She couldn’t. But she changed her place inside it.

And slowly, something softened. Her laugh returned — not often, but enough. She picked up her old poetry notebook. She texted her sister more. She went hiking again and cried — not from sadness, but from remembering who she used to be.

The workplace didn’t just change her. It tested her. And for a while, she bent too far. But she came back.

Not to who she was before — but to someone wiser. Someone with lines. And light.

Note:

Workplaces can mold us in quiet ways — through culture, pressure, or the silent expectation to sacrifice. But we choose, ultimately, how much of ourselves we give, and what we protect. Burnout isn’t a badge of honor. And sometimes, drawing a boundary is the bravest kind of ambition there is.