There’s a certain smug self-satisfaction that comes with being the one who “has ideas” in meetings. A dangerous twinkle in the eye. The sort of misguided optimism that leads one to believe they can make things better.
That was me.
Once.
Now I know better. Now I sit in silence, eyes down, fiddling with a pen like it’s a bomb defusal trigger. Because every time I’ve opened my mouth to suggest something helpful, I’ve ended up project managing it, facilitating it, or—on one tragic occasion—being thanked for “volunteering” when I was quite clearly just thinking out loud.
Here, for the record (and perhaps your own self-preservation), are five “innocent” moments that spiralled into logistical hell.
1. “Wouldn’t it be easier if we had a shared document?”
Original thought:
We’re knee-deep in a reply-all email chain involving seven different people, three versions of the same spreadsheet, and a passive-aggressive attachment named FINAL_THIS_ONE_REALLY_FINAL_July_2025_NEW.xlsx.
I thought I was helping. I thought: There must be a better way.
What happened next:
I created the document. Shared the link. Gave everyone edit access.
Big mistake.
I am now the Document Goblin. Keeper of the Spreadsheet. Warden of Comments. I’m consulted for every tiny formatting decision like I’m the ghost of Clippy come back to suffer.
Someone once tagged me at 11:48pm to say, “Row 19 is acting funny.” I haven’t known peace since.
2. “I don’t mind taking minutes, just this once.”
Original thought:
The Chair forgot their notepad. Everyone else is “terrible at typing” (a suspicious claim in an office full of 70 WPM typists). I had a laptop. I had fingers. I was young and naive.
What happened next:
Two years later, I’m still taking the bloody minutes.
I’ve documented over 48 meetings, 17 of which were about the next meeting. I now type in bullet points even in casual conversation. I no longer experience time—only “action points.”
Colleagues ask for “the minutes” like they’re requesting a sacred scroll. Once, someone disputed an agreement, and I had to cite myself. I am become bureaucracy, destroyer of free time.
3. “We could probably make this into a workshop.”
Original thought:
We were discussing staff burnout. I, ironically burned out myself, said:
“Maybe instead of yet another 26-page policy document, we could do a workshop or something.”
This was meant as a throwaway suggestion. Like saying “we should go for coffee sometime” and then immediately forgetting the other person exists.
What happened next:
Apparently I have a “gift for engagement.” I now run a quarterly interactive learning session called “Burnout and You: Let’s Try Screaming Into a Mug Together.”
It includes icebreakers, “check-in wheels”, and a paper-based feelings volcano. Nobody’s enjoying it, least of all me. At the last session, someone cried during the mindfulness bit. I asked if they were okay. They said, “Not really, but you’re trying so hard.”
I don’t know if that was praise or a cry for help. Possibly both.
4. “I read something about that the other day…”
Original thought:
There was a lull in the meeting. I thought I’d throw in a light factoid to move things along. Harmless, right? Just a fun little “Did you know?”
What happened next:
I was declared subject matter expert on the spot.
“Since you’ve already been doing research on this…” they said, casually offering me leadership of the pilot project. I wasn’t even sure what the topic was. I only read half an article on LinkedIn during a slow spell at Pret.
Now I lead a working group. There’s a Teams channel with my name on it. I once explained a concept using a diagram I made in MS Paint. It’s been circulated to senior management. I now live in fear of being invited to present it at a conference.
5. “I’ve made a rough draft, but it’s nothing special.”
Original thought:
I stayed up late, slightly overcaffeinated, and bashed out a quick draft of a staff handbook rewrite. It wasn’t polished, but it didn’t have Comic Sans, and that already put it ahead of 60% of internal documents.
What happened next:
“This is great!” they said.
“This should be the new template!” they said.
I now unwittingly own the organisation’s tone of voice. People email me asking if their sentence is “on brand.” I’ve had an argument about hyphenation that lasted three weeks. I made a joke once about semicolons being “emotionally unstable commas.” It ended up in the comms strategy.
Honourable Mentions:
- “Maybe we should have a survey?” → You now manage SurveyMonkey and the eternal inbox of complaints that is the “anonymous feedback form.”
- “We should ask people what they want.” → Now you’re running a consultation. With stakeholders. With minutes.
- “That meeting could’ve been an email.” → Congratulations, you now write the email.
Lessons Learned (Possibly):
- Never speak in hypotheticals.
- Never look directly at the Chair when suggesting anything.
- If you must contribute, do so in riddles.
E.g.,
“Perhaps time is a circle and we are all but stewards of its confusion…”
Then nod thoughtfully. Take a sip of tea. They’ll never ask you again.
Conclusion
Some people rise through the ranks through hard work, ambition, and natural leadership.
I’ve managed to get noticed by saying “wouldn’t it be better if…” and then spending six months cleaning up the consequences.
Next time, I’ll just smile, nod, and accidentally mute myself for the rest of the meeting. It’s the only safe option.
James Henshaw is a brooding Geordie export who swapped the industrial grit of Newcastle for the peculiar calm of Lincolnshire—though he’s yet to fully trust the flatness. With a mind as sharp as a stiletto and a penchant for science-tinged musings, James blends the surreal with the everyday, crafting blogs that feel like the lovechild of a physics textbook and a fever dream.
Equally at home dissecting the absurdities of modern life as he is explaining quantum theory with alarming metaphors, James writes with the wit of someone who knows too much and the irreverence of someone who doesn’t care. His posts are infused with a dark humour that dares you to laugh at the strange, the inexplicable, and the occasionally terrifying truths of the universe—whether it’s the unnerving accuracy of Alexa or the existential menace of wasps.
A figure of mystery with a slightly unsettling edge, James is the sort of bloke who’d explain the meaning of life over a pint, but only after a dramatic pause long enough to make you question your own existence. His wit cuts deep, his insights are sharp, and his ability to make the surreal feel strangely plausible keeps readers coming back for more.
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