Pros
I cannot identify any positives
Cons
At this place, you are not a person; you are a metric on a dashboard, a cell in a spreadsheet that someone colours red, amber, or green. Targets arrive from somewhere far above, faceless and unexplained, and your worth is quietly recalculated every week against numbers you never agreed to and outcomes you don’t control. The language of the place is percentages and “headcount”, “utilisation” and “capacity”, as if human beings were just interchangeable cartridges to be slotted in, drained, and replaced. When something goes wrong, the first response is not to ask what support you needed, but to check which box can be ticked to record your failure. Over time you learn that it is safer to look busy than to be honest, safer to say “yes” than to have an opinion, safer to be a number than to risk showing that you are a human being with limits. The culture feels less like a team and more like an algorithm, constantly optimising for cost and control while quietly stripping out anything resembling care. Conversations about people happen in rooms they are not invited into, in terms they would not recognise themselves in: resources, FTEs, attrition risk. The few flashes of individuality, humour, creativity, genuine concern are treated as inefficiencies to be ironed out in the next reorganisation. Recognition is automated, feedback is templated, and any sense of meaning is outsourced to slide decks about “values” that bear no resemblance to how decisions are actually made. You leave each day a little more drained and a little less sure you matter, feeling like the only measurable outcome is how quickly the place can turn living, thinking adults into compliant, silent statistics.