This week, I became the Hatchet Lady.
I have always been drawn to small institutions. There is something about a close-knit community that creates a sense of safety for me. My graduating high school class had 32 students. At the time of my graduation, enrollment at my university was just over 3,000. The first professional job I ever had employed seven people. This isn’t just a trend for me; it has been a defining feature of both my academic and professional life.
Like any entity, these small environments have their benefits and drawbacks. You can’t hide in a small crowd, which means you have a better chance of having your brilliance and contributions recognized. It also means your failures are just as apparent, and even if you feel the urge to shift blame onto someone else, you would be found out quickly. Unlike in the labyrinth of cubicles inside a massive department, there is nowhere to hide your shame.
The allure of small-to-midsized companies was sold to me in the early 2000s as places where you could grow, collaborate, and diversify. These were the birthplaces of “cross-functional teams” because no employee had just one role. The company demanded as much talent and ability from each person as it could extract, and when you were young, you were happy to give it. Or at least I was. I was eager to prove myself and, more importantly, discover what untapped abilities I could develop that would contribute to the “goals and mission of the organization.”
In these intimate workspaces, we remembered each other’s birthdays, celebrated marriages, grieved divorces, and held middle management’s hair back over the toilet bowl when they’d had too much to drink. For a young person in a new city, it was as close to a family as you could get.
The early and mid-2000s were also a tumultuous time for the American economy in particular and the global economy in general. Ponzi schemes, the financial crisis, bank bailouts, and the bursting of the housing and tech bubbles permanently mutated access to the American Dream. But at least you had your work family, right? You could weather these storms together… until you couldn’t.
Through a succession of layoffs, I found out very quickly how little buffer existed to absorb the financial shock of external forces. The devastation to my personal finances aside, I wondered how my bosses could call us into their offices, week after week, to deliver such mortifying news.
I remember that soon after a merger with a larger company — a move that was supposed to save our small entity — my CEO was tasked with firing 15% of the total workforce. This earned her the unflattering nickname “Hatchet Lady.” One can speculate why, out of all upper management, she — the only female executive — was handed the unpopular task. I still believe misogyny played a role. But one thing no one ever speculated about was how it affected her.
Twenty-some years later, I find myself grappling with similar conditions.
On May 18th, I sat in a Zoom meeting with nine members of my team. Every microphone was muted. Every camera remained off. I explained the situation, outlined the organizational changes ahead, and then asked if anyone had questions. I was met with steely silence. No one had a query. No one needed clarification. There was only a cold understanding hanging in the air about the potential consequences we were all facing together. It was one of the longest silences of my professional life.
And in that moment, I became the Hatchet Lady.
I still believe in the power and benefits of small companies, which is why I sought to build one of my own. MASI Media — now StoryYellers Collective — has been a place where African women beginning careers in media arts and content creation could gain real-world experience. We have billed our organization as a “safe space to fail,” meaning the corporate privilege of “failing up,” usually reserved for white men, is extended to women who have historically been expected to embody excellence and sacrifice at all times.
Our turnover has been low, with most employees reporting high job satisfaction. Of course, there is always an outlier: disgruntled and now voluntarily departed. Nevertheless, I consider their dissatisfaction a boon. One of the best ways to improve your performance is to listen carefully to what makes others unhappy.
Like my previous workplaces, I created an open-door policy. I know a great deal about my colleagues and subordinates — some might say more than a person in my position as executive director should. But I don’t consider this closeness an interference with my work. I have always used it as fuel to do my best for my employees. After all, we have celebrated birthdays, breakups, and major life moments together. I am devoted to these women.
And now, finding myself subject to external forces beyond both my control and my company’s control, I have had to invite a good number of these colleagues into my virtual office for closed-door meetings to announce changes to their employment — in some cases, permanent ones. Many of them have been understanding and gracious, for which I am grateful. Still, it feels like an unforgivable failure on my part, knowing that this circumstance will impact their daily lives while I remain powerless, at least for the moment, to help.
Is this what my Hatchet Lady felt when she delivered the news of my no-fault termination? By that point, she had fired so many people that I convinced myself she probably felt nothing at all. But perhaps that was simply the story I needed to tell in order to make my own humiliation easier to bear. Now, standing on the opposite side of that conversation, I suspect the truth is more complicated.
LinkedIn has created an entire performance genre around leadership. Managers and executives routinely post productivity hacks, inspirational quotes, and polished announcements about exciting transitions and strategic pivots. What the platform rarely features are the private emotional consequences of leadership — the shame, insomnia, guilt, and grief that can accompany decisions made under financial duress.
So I will happily share what those moments actually feel like.
It sucks.
It hurts.
I will be awake thinking about this for weeks.
But perhaps this is also the clearest test of whether a workplace has truly functioned as a community and not merely as a revenue-generating machine. In larger organizations, reductions in force are often outsourced to consultants in the name of efficiency or shareholder confidence. In a place like mine, there is no emotional distance available. You know who just got engaged. You know whose rent increased unexpectedly. You know who is helping support extended family members while trying to build a career that barely existed for women like them a generation ago.
Moments like this have strengthened my resolve to become more innovative in our income-generating activities — not because it looks impressive in a grant report or organizational portfolio, but because I know that on the other end of every deposit slip is a person trying to build a life. Someone who wants to celebrate a birthday without anxiety. Someone trying to leave a bad relationship. Someone hoping their creative work might finally offer stability instead of struggle.
And perhaps that is the real tragedy of becoming the Hatchet Lady: not simply having to cut people loose, but caring enough that each cut leaves a wound on you too.
Fellow managers: Have you had to conduct no-fault terminations? How did you navigate the emotional aftermath? Recommendations for support groups are welcome.