Who Scoped This Sh*t?

“This Is the Job” and Other Lies You Hear When You’re Drowning

They didn’t change the job. They just kept adding to it—until you forgot what it was supposed to be. That’s not evolution. That’s erosion. And the worst part? In doing it, you kinda got tricked into agreeing to it.

You were hired to handle operations. Keep things moving. Coordinate the chaos. Maybe it was scheduling. Maybe it was logistics. Maybe it was client comms or crew support or some mix of admin and people glue. The role had edges. It had clarity. You knew where it began and where it ended.

Until you didn’t.

Now you’re doing sales calls, on-site coordination, customer intake, vendor follow-ups, team triage, and executive support. You’re fourteen hours deep, six tabs open in your brain, and still somehow being told: “This is the job.”

No, it’s not. This is three jobs duct-taped together, and you're the one getting blamed when the seams split.

So let’s go back to the real question.

Who decides the scope of your job?

Technically, it’s the person who hired you—the one with the authority to define roles. But functionally? That power gets warped. What begins as a job description turns into a grab bag of unmet needs. You’re good at something? Do more of it. You didn’t complain when something extra landed on your desk? Cool, now it’s yours. You made it look easy? Great—let’s pretend it is.

And that’s how job scope turns into job sprawl.

It’s not designed. It’s absorbed. And that’s the trap. Because once you’re holding the invisible weight of three people’s work, you can’t prove it’s too much—until something drops. And when it does? They don’t question the load. They question you.

That’s the sleight of hand: over-functioning becomes the expectation. And the second you name the cost, you’re treated like a problem. Like you failed the job, instead of the job failing you.

So what makes them qualified to judge how much one role should hold?

Nothing. Except power. And power, for the record, isn’t the same thing as judgment. Or insight. Or humanity.

You’re not wrong to question it. In fact, you might be the only one doing the math. You’re not underperforming—you’re overwhelmed. You’re not weak—you’re overburdened. And the failure here isn’t your capacity. It’s their refusal to recognize that capacity has a limit.

Because somewhere along the line, we stopped designing jobs based on what they require. We started designing them around who’s willing.

And if you’re sharp, capable, and give a damn? Congratulations. You’re the new dumping ground. You’re “so good” that they don’t need to hire help. You “care so much” that they don’t need to intervene. You’re “handling it”—so they don’t have to.

Until you break. And then it’s a performance issue.

This isn’t just bad leadership. It’s a cultural failure. A system that confuses endurance with excellence. That rewards compliance with more work. That punishes boundaries as betrayal.

It’s exploitation with a name tag. Burnout dressed up as loyalty. The quiet death of standards—yours, theirs, everyone’s.

And if you’re asking the question—Who scoped this sh*t?—it means you still believe there’s a better way. Hold onto that.

Because the job isn’t broken because you can’t do it. It’s broken because no one ever stopped to ask if it made sense.

That’s not your failure. That’s your foresight.

Now the real question: what should you do?

Honestly? You might need to leave.

I wish the answer was “talk to your manager” or “build a case for headcount.” But let’s not kid ourselves. If they were open to feedback, you wouldn’t be this deep in it. If they were going to fix it, they’d have done it after the second time you raised the flag. Not the seventh. Not now, when you’re running on fumes and still somehow being asked to smile.

Because here’s what’s more likely: they won’t fix it. They’ll just find someone new.

Someone fresh. Someone eager. Someone who hasn’t learned yet that “this is the job” is code for “we’re going to keep bleeding you until you snap.”

And when that person eventually snaps? They’ll find another. And another. Cheaper, if they can. More pliable, if they’re lucky. And every time, they’ll tell themselves the same thing: “We just haven’t found the right person yet.”

Never mind that the “right person” they’re chasing doesn’t exist. Never mind that what they’ve written is a wishlist for three humans, bound into one underpaid body. Even the best people will fail in a system designed to drain, not sustain.

They’ll keep posting. Keep hiring. Keep watching good people walk out the door. And still never once question the job they’ve designed.

Because to do that would mean admitting the problem wasn’t the people. It was them. It still is.

So if you’re sitting there wondering whether it’s you—stop.

It’s not.

It’s the scope.
It’s the system.
It’s the seductive lie that good people can fix bad design.

You can’t. And you shouldn’t have to.

If you’re thinking of leaving and you have the safety net, don’t feel guilty. Feel clear.

Leaving might be the most honest leadership act available to you. A refusal to participate in the delusion. A vote for your sanity. A quiet message to the next person: you’re not crazy. This job is.

And if they ever do fix it—if they finally split the role into what it always should have been—don’t let them say they had an epiphany. You were the proof. You were the first flare.

Sometimes the most powerful thing you can do is walk out and let the silence speak louder than you ever could inside it.

And hey—if you’re the they/them in this equation, and someone you hired, trusted, and maybe even bragged about is telling you the role’s become too much? Believe them. Don’t coach them into silence. Don’t wait until they burn out, leave, or quietly disengage. Just hire the second person. You’re going to end up doing it anyway—after a few more rounds of churn and denial. Save yourself the drama. And save them.