’Tis the season for carved pumpkins, god-awful candy corn, and an inevitable workplace costume that lands someone a well-earned talking-to from HR. Halloween is near, which means it’s the perfect time to reflect on a tale from the cubicle that’s even spookier than Tales From the Crypt. It starts with three words that would strike fear in the heart of anyone who’s ever worked in corporate America.
Performance. Improvement. Plan.
Taken at face value, the phrase sounds gentle, maybe even helpful, like the start of a company-sponsored self-care journey. In reality, a PIP is usually the workplace equivalent of a death sentence, a corporate guillotine that gives “being on the clock” a whole new meaning. At least that’s how it felt early in my career when it happened to me.
The news hit like a cold email from HR with no greeting. I remember sitting across from my manager (let’s call her Lisa) at a long-ass boardroom table, fluorescent lights humming, my coffee going cold as she explained the “expectations moving forward.” She had that tone people use when they’re rehearsing empathy. And while I tried to keep my composure, all I could hear as Lisa spoke was, “Your days here are numbered.”
I was working at a startup—one of those scrappy, ever-changing companies where job descriptions are more like suggestions. Every few months, my priorities shifted, as did my boss, team, and sometimes the department I worked in. Still, I kept my head down, remained adaptable, and did solid work.
But at some point after my third job title change, I started to lose steam. Projects dragged. Deadlines slipped. Some of it was on me—constant change can burn out even the most proactive employee. But a lot of it came down to the chaos: unclear direction, competing priorities, constant pivots. I’d go from one “urgent” request to another, without anyone assessing my workload or considering whether I was merely spinning my wheels. So it was a wake-up call when Lisa summoned me into that 1:1 meeting and told me I was being put on a PIP (no Gladys Knight). I didn’t just need to tighten up; I needed to learn how to move in a room full of vultures.
There’s something humbling about having your performance questioned in black and white. I felt embarrassed, frustrated, and, honestly, a little angry. I’d been juggling a revolving door of responsibilities while management kept changing the rules mid-game. But once the sting wore off, I realized this was a turning point. I could either take it as a big L like the late Harlem rapper or treat it as feedback. I decided to lock in.
The thing is, I had a publicity problem. So many of my contributions were going unseen, unrecognized, or worse, attributed to someone else. I set out to change that. Asana became my amigo. Weekly emailed status updates to Lisa became the norm. Long division had nothing on the way I was showing my work.
I also stopped waiting for clarity. If directions were vague, I asked all of the questions until I got specifics. If priorities clashed, I pushed for alignment. It wasn’t easy; when you’re a young professional, advocating for yourself can feel like being confrontational. But I also understood how silence had been making me complicit in my own confusion.
Believe it or not, things improved. My work got sharper. My time management leveled up. Even Lisa softened a bit, noticing that I was handling the pressure with a new kind of steadiness. I started to believe I might survive the PIP and come out on the other side even stronger—not unlike how 50 Cent emerged from the gunsmoke of nine bullet wounds before becoming a household name.
Then the layoffs hit.
Lisa sat there silent while her boss broke the news: My role was being eliminated as part of a “restructuring.” I raised an eyebrow when she assured me it had nothing to do with the PIP. It didn’t really matter, though. All that growth, all that effort—and I was still out of a job.
But I didn’t walk out defeated. I knew I’d done my best work during that PIP. I learned the annoying art of workplace communication and receipt-taking. I stood up for myself. And I left that job with more confidence than I had going in. That was the real win. (Not to mention the years-later apology from Lisa, who admitted that she “undervalued” me. Better late than never, I guess.)
My Scottie PIPpen days taught me a difficult but necessary truth: Sometimes you can do everything “right” and still get caught in the wrong storm. But if you use that pressure to sharpen your processes, you’ll come out stronger, no matter how it ends.
So if you ever find yourself cast as the main character in your own workplace horror story, don’t panic. Get organized. Get visible. Get curious. (And get your résumé updated, just in case.) Because it’s not about proving anyone else wrong. It’s about proving to yourself that even when things get scary, you’re built to survive.
The Only Black Guy in the Office is copublished with LEVELman.com.