Every morning, as I drove to the behavioral clinic where I worked as a Registered Behavior Technician specializing in autistic children, I’d park my car and just sit there, clinging to those last few precious minutes of calm. I’d stare at the clinic doors, dreading the moment I’d have to walk in and face another day of frustration and tension. I’d linger as long as I could without risking being late, trying to fortify myself for the relentless, toxic atmosphere waiting inside. It should have been different—I loved those kids. Watching a non-verbal child finally string words together or seeing parents cry tears of joy over their child’s progress should have made every day worth it. But my coworkers seemed determined to make my life miserable.
Two particular coworkers turned the clinic into a place I dreaded walking into. One was relentless, throwing out baseless accusations—claiming I slammed doors in her face or gave the kids tasks that were “too difficult.” She’d weave ridiculous stories about me, trying to turn everyone else in the clinic against me. Her sidekick wasn’t any better—pretending to be this sweet, kind, church-attending, innocent mother to a newborn while spreading her own toxic lies and complaints about everyone and everything. Together, they made it their mission to cast me as the clinic’s scapegoat.
Not a single day went by without some sly comment or a condescending look from one of them. In their pettiness, they spread some of the most damaging rumors, even going so far as to accuse me of abusing children. Just think about that. I poured my heart and soul into these kids, and here were these people throwing around the most vicious, baseless, false accusations. Every day became a struggle to keep my head above water, trying to stay focused on my work when my mind was consumed with their lies and manipulation. I was drained, mentally exhausted, and unable to be the caregiver those kids deserved.
I decided enough was enough. I went to my supervisors, the Board Certified Behavior Analysts (BCBAs), and requested a meeting. I laid it all out for them—the false accusations, the constant negativity, and the way these two were twisting the truth. I wanted to make sure my supervisors understood what was really going on, to counter the false narratives these two had been spreading about me. I hoped they would step in and address the situation. But instead, they told me, “We know your character, and we know hers. She’s had a history of not following the behavior plan and doing things her own way. Honestly, she might be envious—of your work ethic, the bond you have with the children, and the respect you’ve earned by always being ahead on reports. You’ve set a higher standard here, and maybe that’s made some people uncomfortable. But for now, it’s best to be the bigger person and not let it get to you. We all know the truth, and that’s what matters.”
“Be the bigger person?” I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to be the bigger person. I was done being the bigger person. Why was it always on me to endure, to rise above, to keep taking it? Why did I have to tolerate their behavior while they got off without any consequences? What I needed wasn’t platitudes about taking the high road—I needed real action. I needed accountability. I was tired of pretending that turning the other cheek was some sort of virtue when it only enabled their cruelty.
I tried addressing the issue directly with these coworkers, thinking maybe just maybe, they’d listen if I confronted them face-to-face. But they doubled down, playing their manipulative games and flipping the script. One of my bosses tried to be supportive in his own way, even teaching me how to shoot and helping me get my gun license outside of work. But in the clinic, nothing changed. Every day was still a battlefield of passive-aggressive comments and outright hostility. I couldn’t breathe without feeling their eyes on me, waiting for me to slip up.
I had crafted my entire future around this career, researching universities to pursue a Board Certified Applied Behavior Analysis (ABA) degree and hoping to make a meaningful long-term impact. But nonetheless, I couldn’t shake the constant thoughts of quitting. Doubts flooded my mind and the fear of potential regret weighed heavily on me. Was I walking away too soon from something I had invested so much in? Was I making a mistake by leaving a career I had been so passionate about? I knew I would deeply miss the children I worked with every day—their smiles, their progress, the bonds we had formed. The idea of parting ways with them was heartbreaking. Moreover, I didn’t want the parents to feel like I was abandoning their child or giving up on them. The mental tug-of-war between staying and leaving lasted months.
Until it didn’t.
I realized I was waking up every day with a knot in my stomach, dreading work. I loved those kids with everything I had, but it wasn’t enough to keep sacrificing my sanity for a place that refused to enforce its own standards of decency. So I wrote my resignation and made it clear, this was effective immediately. I was done.
“Being the bigger person” is always pitched as the “right” thing to do, but let’s be real—at what cost? Why should I be the bigger person when the aggressors face no consequences, when their behavior is practically encouraged by the sheer lack of accountability? I shouldn’t have to keep swallowing my pride and my peace just to make everyone else comfortable. Sometimes, the best thing you can do is walk away—leave behind the toxicity and refuse to be the target for someone else’s bitterness. And the next best thing you can do is to learn how to communicate effectively, so no one feels comfortable to even dare cross you.
