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.)

The Absurdity of “Test Twenty”: Cricket’s Latest Monster

Waleed Hussain
Oct 19
3 min read

Oh, joy! Just when we thought cricket couldn’t get any more “innovative,” the powers-that-be have gifted us “Test Twenty.” Because nothing says “preserving the sanctity of the game” like smashing the five-day epic of Test cricket into a hyper-caffeinated, 20-over sprint. It’s like taking Shakespeare’s Hamlet and condensing it into a TikTok video: “To be or not to be? LOL, bye!” If you’re not already rolling your eyes, allow me to sarcastically applaud the ICC or whichever marketing genius dreamed this up. Bravo! You’ve solved the non-problem of Test cricket being “too boring” by turning it into a circus act.

For the uninitiated—bless your souls if you’ve managed to avoid this abomination—“Test Twenty” is the shiny new format announced in early 2025, blending the strategic depth of Test matches with the fireworks of T20. Matches are capped at 20 overs per side per day, but with Test-like rules: unlimited bouncers, no powerplays, and the pink ball under lights to “enhance viewer engagement.” It’s supposed to be a “bridge” between formats, attracting younger fans while keeping purists happy. Spoiler: It does neither. Instead, it’s a pitfall-riddled mess that exposes cricket’s desperate chase for relevance in a world of instant gratification.

Let’s start with the sarcasm-dripping pitfalls, shall we? First off, the pacing. Traditional Test cricket is a slow burn, a chess match where patience wins wars. In Test Twenty, it’s like forcing grandmasters to play speed chess while juggling flaming bats. Bowlers, those poor souls, get hammered in the first few overs as batters swing for the fences, knowing there’s no tomorrow—literally, since the game’s over before tea. Imagine Jasprit Bumrah, the king of yorkers, reduced to a sideshow act, slinging down 20 overs of “strategic aggression” only to watch sixes rain like confetti at a bad wedding. And the fielding? Forget cat-like reflexes; players will need to evolve into octopuses to cover the boundaries in this condensed chaos.

Humor me for a moment: Picture a “Test” declaration in the 15th over because your star batter got a cramp from all the frantic running. Or worse, rain delays—already the bane of cricket—turning a one-day affair into a multi-day farce. “Sorry, folks, Day 2 is postponed because the outfield’s a swamp. Tune in tomorrow for the thrilling conclusion of our 40-over epic!” The irony is delicious: They’ve shortened the game to combat boredom, but added layers of unpredictability that could drag it out longer than a standard ODI. And don’t get me started on player welfare. Test cricket builds endurance; T20 demands explosiveness. Mash them together, and you’ve got athletes ping-ponging between formats like overworked pinballs, risking burnout faster than a microwave popcorn bag left unattended.

Then there’s the commercial elephant in the room—or should I say, the sponsor-logo-plastered pachyderm? Test Twenty screams “monetization opportunity.” Shorter games mean more ads, more franchise tie-ins, and more excuses to slap energy drink logos on everything from helmets to the pitch. It’s hilarious how administrators pat themselves on the back for “growing the game” while conveniently ignoring that this format is just another cash grab. Remember The Hundred? That was supposed to revolutionize cricket too, but it mostly confused everyone with its quirky scoring and ended up as a footnote. Test Twenty feels like that, but with a pretentious “Test” label slapped on to fool traditionalists. Pitfall numero uno: It dilutes the brand. What even is a “Test” anymore if it’s over before you’ve finished your first beer?

And oh, the humanity—traditional Test cricket is about to take a long, painful hit. This new darling will suck up scheduling slots like a black hole devours stars. International calendars are already bloated with T20 leagues; now, boards will prioritize Test Twenty’s quick-turnaround profitability over the grueling five-dayers. Why host a Test series that might draw modest crowds when you can pack stadiums for a fireworks-fest that wraps up in hours? Purists will wail as iconic venues like Lord’s or the MCG host fewer real Tests, relegated to “heritage” events like dusty museum exhibits. Young players, lured by the glamour and paychecks, will skip honing their red-ball skills, leading to a generation of sloggers who crumble under pressure in actual endurance battles. It’s comedic in a tragic way: We’re trading timeless rivalries like the Ashes for forgettable slugfests that no one will reminisce about in 50 years.

In conclusion, Test Twenty isn’t innovation; it’s a sarcastic punchline to cricket’s identity crisis. It’s like putting pineapple on pizza—sure, some might love it, but it ruins the original for everyone else. If we let this monster thrive, traditional Test cricket won’t just take a hit; it’ll be knocked out cold, leaving us with a game that’s all flash and no substance. Let’s hope the fans revolt before it’s too late. Otherwise, farewell to the art of the draw; hello to the era of instant regrets.

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

1 Comment

MaryJane

Oct 29

Interesting how sports and games keep evolving in different directions. Sometimes it’s about tradition, sometimes it’s about quick reflexes and fun. A nice example from the gaming side is https://game-chickenroad.org/app/ – a mobile app where you guide a chicken through busy roads. Simple on the surface, but it really tests timing, focus and concentration, much like mastering any skill-based activity.

Edited