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By:

Rahul Kulkarni

30 March 2025 at 3:32:54 pm

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...

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 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 Eternal Beauty of Test Cricket

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Test cricket is the heartbeat of the game, the soul of sport, a canvas where resilience, grit, and glory paint stories that echo through generations. And what a masterpiece we witnessed when South Africa, the underdog Proteas, toppled the mighty Australians in a clash that will be whispered about in cricket’s hallowed halls for years to come. This wasn’t just a match; it was a five-day epic, a love letter to the game’s enduring beauty, sealed with the heroics of Aiden Markram.


Test cricket is no fleeting fling. It’s a slow burn, a romance that demands patience, strategy, and heart. It’s the only format where time itself becomes a character, stretching moments into eternity, testing players and fans alike. In this latest chapter, South Africa faced an Australian side that arrived like conquerors, their aura forged in decades of dominance. Yet, the Proteas, battered but unbowed, reminded us why Test cricket is the ultimate stage for human spirit.


From the first ball, this match was a war of attrition. Australia’s bowlers, led by the relentless Pat Cummins, hurled thunderbolts, their eyes gleaming with predatory intent. South Africa’s batters, time and again, were pushed to the brink. Wickets tumbled, hopes flickered, but something stirred in the Proteas’ camp—a defiance, a belief that refused to die. And at the center of this storm stood Aiden Markram, a man whose bat became a beacon, guiding his team through the darkest hours.


Markram’s innings was no mere collection of runs; it was a saga of courage. Every cover drive, every defiant block, carried the weight of a nation’s dreams. He wasn’t just batting; he was fighting—for his team, for his country, for the very essence of Test cricket. When he raised his bat for a century, the roar from the stands wasn’t just for him; it was for every fan who’s ever held their breath through a tense session, for every dreamer who knows that Test cricket rewards those who endure. His resolve inspired his teammates, galvanizing a side that refused to bow to Australia’s might.


What makes Test cricket so beautiful is its unpredictability, its refusal to bow to scripts. Australia, with their storied lineup, were favorites, their batting order a parade of titans. But Test cricket laughs at reputations. It humbles the mighty and elevates the brave. South Africa’s bowlers, led by the tireless Kagiso Rabada, tore through Australia’s lineup like a wildfire through dry grass. Each wicket was a triumph, each celebration a release of pent-up passion. The Proteas didn’t just play; they poured their souls onto the pitch, their unity a testament to the game’s power to forge bonds under pressure.


And oh, the final day! If Test cricket is a novel, the fifth day is its climactic chapter, where every twist leaves you gasping. Australia, chasing a daunting target, fought with the ferocity of cornered lions. The tension was unbearable—every run a dagger, every dot ball a prayer. But South Africa held firm. Markram, now a leader in the field, marshaled his troops with a calm that belied the storm within. When the final run was taken, the eruption of joy was seismic. Players embraced, fans wept, and somewhere, the spirit of Test cricket smiled.


This victory wasn’t just South Africa’s; it was Test cricket’s. In an age of T20 pyrotechnics and instant gratification, this match was a reminder that true beauty lies in struggle, in the slow unfurling of a story over five grueling days. Test cricket doesn’t spoon-feed excitement; it earns it, drop by drop, session by session. It’s a game that mirrors life—full of setbacks, moments of doubt, and the sweet, hard-won taste of triumph. It teaches us that glory is sweetest when it’s forged in the furnace of adversity.


Aiden Markram, take a bow. Your resilience was the heartbeat of this win, a testament to the Proteas’ unyielding spirit. But this victory belongs to every player who toiled, every fan who believed, and every blade of grass on that sacred pitch. South Africa didn’t just beat Australia; they reminded us why we love Test cricket—because it’s raw, real, and relentlessly human.


As the sun set on that glorious final day, I felt a lump in my throat. Test cricket, you’ve done it again. You’ve woven a tale of heartbreak and heroism, of a team that dared to dream against the odds. South Africa’s triumph over Australia wasn’t just a win; it was a celebration of everything that makes this format immortal. So here’s to you, Test cricket, you beautiful, brutal, breathtaking game. May your stories never end, and may heroes like Markram keep writing them.


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

3 Comments


MaryJane
Nov 03

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