The Boundary Collapse

When kindness becomes micromanagement It started with a simple leave request. “Hey, can I take Friday off? Need a personal day,” Meera messaged Rohit. Rohit replied instantly: “Of course. All good. Just stay reachable if anything urgent comes up.” He meant it as reassurance. But the team didn’t hear reassurance. They heard a rule. By noon, two things had shifted inside The Workshop: Meera felt guilty for even asking. Everyone else quietly updated their mental handbook: Leave is...

min read

When kindness becomes micromanagement It started with a simple leave request. “Hey, can I take Friday off? Need a personal day,” Meera messaged Rohit. Rohit replied instantly: “Of course. All good. Just stay reachable if anything urgent comes up.” He meant it as reassurance. But the team didn’t hear reassurance. They heard a rule. By noon, two things had shifted inside The Workshop: Meera felt guilty for even asking. Everyone else quietly updated their mental handbook: Leave is allowed… but not really. This is boundary collapse… when a leader’s good intentions unintentionally blur the limits that protect autonomy and rest. When care quietly turns into control Founders rarely intend to micromanage. What looks like control from the outside often starts as care from the inside. “Let me help before something breaks.” “Let me stay involved so we don’t lose time.” “Loop me in… I don’t want you stressed.” Supportive tone. Good intentions. But one invisible truth defines workplace psychology: When power says “optional,” it never feels optional.
So when a client requested a revision, Rohit gently pinged: “If you’re free, could you take a look?” Of course she logged in. Of course she handled it. And by Monday, the cultural shift was complete: Leave = location change, not a boundary. A founder’s instinct had quietly become a system. Pattern 1: The Generous Micromanager Modern micromanagement rarely looks aggressive. It looks thoughtful : “Let me refine this so you’re not stuck.” “I’ll review it quickly.” “Share drafts so we stay aligned.” Leaders believe they’re being helpful. Teams hear: “You don’t fully trust me.” “I should check with you before finishing anything.” “My decisions aren’t final.” Gentle micromanagement shrinks ownership faster than harsh micromanagement ever did because people can’t challenge kindness. Pattern 2: Cultural conditioning around availability In many Indian workplaces, “time off” has an unspoken footnote: Be reachable. Just in case. No one says it directly. No one pushes back openly. The expectation survives through habit: Leave… but monitor messages. Rest… but don’t disconnect. Recover… but stay alert. Contrast this with a global team we worked with: A designer wrote, “I’ll be off Friday, but available if needed.” Her manager replied: “If you’re working on your off-day, we mismanaged the workload… not the boundary.” One conversation. Two cultural philosophies. Two completely different emotional outcomes. Pattern 3: The override reflex Every founder has a version of this reflex. Whenever Rohit sensed risk, real or imagined, he stepped in: Rewriting copy. Adjusting a design. Rescoping a task. Reframing an email. Always fast. Always polite. Always “just helping.” But each override delivered one message: “Your autonomy is conditional.” You own decisions… until the founder feels uneasy. You take initiative… until instinct replaces delegation. No confrontation. No drama. Just quiet erosion of confidence. The family-business amplification Boundary collapse becomes extreme in family-managed companies. We worked with one firm where four family members… founder, spouse, father, cousin… all had informal authority. Everyone cared. Everyone meant well. But for employees, decision-making became a maze: Strategy approved by the founder. Aesthetics by the spouse. Finance by the father. Tone by the cousin. They didn’t need leadership. They needed clarity. Good intentions without boundaries create internal anarchy. The global contrast A European product team offered a striking counterexample. There, the founder rarely intervened mid-stream… not because of distance, but because of design: “If you own the decision, you own the consequences.” Decision rights were clear. Escalation paths were explicit. Authority didn’t shift with mood or urgency. No late-night edits. No surprise rewrites. No “quick checks.” No emotional overrides. As one designer put it: “If my boss wants to intervene, he has to call a decision review. That friction protects my autonomy.” The result: Faster execution, higher ownership and zero emotional whiplash. Boundaries weren’t personal. They were structural . That difference changes everything. Why boundary collapse is so costly Its damage is not dramatic. It’s cumulative. People stop resting → you get presence, not energy. People stop taking initiative → decisions freeze. People stop trusting empowerment → autonomy becomes theatre. People start anticipating the boss → performance becomes emotional labour. People burn out silently → not from work, but from vigilance. Boundary collapse doesn’t create chaos. It creates hyper-alertness, the heaviest tax on any team. The real paradox Leaders think they’re being supportive. Teams experience supervision. Leaders assume boundaries are obvious. Teams see boundaries as fluid. Leaders think autonomy is granted. Teams act as though autonomy can be revoked at any moment. This is the Boundary Collapse → a misunderstanding born not from intent, but from the invisible weight of power. Micromanagement today rarely looks like anger. More often, it looks like kindness without limits. (Rahul Kulkarni is Co-founder at PPS Consulting. He patterns the human mechanics of scaling where workplace behavior quietly shapes business outcomes. Views personal.)

How a West Indies Cricket Tour Inflates Indian Batsmen’s Egos

Waleed Hussain
Oct 12
3 min read

Oh, the glorious, ego-pampering spectacle of a West Indies cricket tour—a tropical carnival where India’s batsmen strut like rockstars while the Caribbean bowlers flounder like they’re auditioning for a slapstick tragedy. It’s not a cricket series; it’s a lavish spa day for India’s top order, who saunter to the crease knowing they’re about to feast on bowling so spineless it makes a jellyfish look like a bodybuilder. The West Indian attack? Less a bowling unit, more a charity event for India’s run-starved superstars to gorge themselves silly.

Let’s kick off with the so-called “pace” attack. The West Indies’ fast bowlers—bless their naive little hearts—charge in with the menace of a soggy napkin. Their “express” deliveries, which might generously be clocked at “leisurely jog,” get dispatched into the next island by Shubman Gill’s effortless cover drive, so casual it’s practically an insult. It’s not bowling; it’s a taxpayer-funded batting clinic. The ball swings for maybe half an over before it’s reduced to a sad, scuffed relic that’s seen more boundary rope than a sailor’s knot-tying manual. By the time the third seamer’s wheeled out, he’s already googling “how to retire early,” while Gill’s piling on runs like he’s collecting loyalty points at a buffet.

And the spinners? Sweet mercy, calling them spinners is like calling a tricycle a monster truck. These poor souls shuffle up, serving a smorgasbord of long-hops, full-tosses, and existential dread that India’s batsmen swat with the glee of kids at a piñata party. Every delivery is a personal affront, every boundary a public flogging. The “turn” is as mythical as a Caribbean snowstorm, and the flight path looks like a paper plane crashing in a windstorm. The bowler’s figures? A numerical catastrophe that could double as a cry for help. Meanwhile, the Indian top order, led by Gill’s boyish smirk, carves elegant shots while mentally planning their next yacht purchase—because why not multitask when the bowling’s this abysmal?

The fielders? Oh, they’re the sad trombone in this circus. Dropped catches are as Caribbean as a steel drum solo, with fielders converging like they’re starring in a low-budget comedy. A miscued lofted shot? No sweat, it’ll plop safely in the no-man’s-land of incompetence between three fielders who’d rather be auditioning for a nap. The scoreboard races faster than a con artist fleeing a scam, and India’s batsmen, smug as ever, watch their averages inflate like a politician’s promises. Why wouldn’t they? They’re not just scoring runs; they’re crafting legacies while the West Indies bowlers beg for a meteor strike to end their suffering.

The psychological massacre is almost too cruel to watch. India’s batsmen stare down bowlers like they’re personally responsible for every bad haircut in the Caribbean. Each boundary is a sneer, a “You call that a delivery?” The West Indian bowlers, reduced to trembling shells, aren’t aiming for wickets anymore—they’re just praying to survive an over without needing a support group. By day three, they’re scrolling LinkedIn for “jobs that don’t involve cricket,” while India’s top order debates whether to notch a double ton or call it quits at 150 to seem vaguely humane.

Let’s be clear: the West Indies try. They really do. It’s almost cute, like watching a goldfish challenge a shark to a duel. But against India’s batting juggernaut, it’s like tossing a paper plane into a hurricane. The Indian batsmen don’t just dominate; they obliterate, piling on runs with the smug entitlement of influencers at a free brunch. A West Indies tour isn’t a cricket match—it’s a coronation where India’s top order is crowned supreme, and the bowlers are left to sweep up the confetti with their shattered dreams.

In the end, the scorecards read like a war crime: triple centuries, double centuries, or at the very least, a breezy 180 before the lunch break. India’s batsmen swagger off, egos so bloated they could block out the sun, while the West Indian bowlers slink away, dreaming of a time when their team inspired fear instead of memes. For India’s top order, it’s not just a tour—it’s a love letter to their own brilliance, sealed with a six over midwicket.

(The writer is a senior journalist based in Mumbai. Views personal.)

1 Comment

MaryJane

Oct 29

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