I remember that moment, crystal clear. A flicker, that's all it was. A micromoment of perceived inadequacy, maybe. Maybe just a fear of it, a premonition. He, the senior manager, he just *looked* at me. Not even a glare, just... a glance. A quick assessment. And I, like a fool, I crumbled. He needed three extra weekend projects done. Urgent, he said. Critical. And I, the junior analyst, I had so much on my plate already. So much. But I pictured it, the alternative. A small hesitation, a polite demurral. And then? The disappointment. Not anger, just that faint, almost imperceptible disappointment. The kind that registers in a lowered brow, a subtle shift in posture. The kind that means, "Oh. *Her*." And I couldn't bear it. Couldn't bear that tiny, fleeting hint of disapproval. Not then, not ever. I said yes. Immediately. Enthusiastically, even. Every single day, every day, I think about that. How I volunteered for servitude, for the grind, to avoid a barely-there shadow of disappointment. It’s been decades since then, and I’m still doing it. Still saying yes, yes, yes. Freelance gigs now, no benefits, chasing the next paycheck, always. Always working, always hustling. That initial fear, that conditioned response to avoid even the *suggestion* of professional failure, it became an operating principle. A fundamental defect, perhaps. I wonder if he even remembered that moment. If he knew the domino effect of that single, desperate affirmation. He probably didn't. He just got his weekend work done. And I... I just kept working. Every single day. Still am.