My salary is hush money

Let’s be honest. Most of us aren’t here because we love the work. We’re not driven by passion. We’re not building the future. We’re not changing the world. We’re just barely surviving, if at all. We’re hanging on by a rapidly fraying thread by muting Slack channels, faking smiles in meetings, and hoping no one notices how completely dead we are inside.

It’s not just the mindless, pointless work that gets under my skin. You know what’s really messing with me? It’s the pretending that kills me.

Pretending you care.

Pretending the company values you.

Pretending like the performance review process is anything other than corporate theater.

Pretending we’re a “family”.

We’re all actors in a very sad, very low-budget play where everyone forgot their lines and the audience left halfway through.

And let’s talk about that salary. The one that gets direct-deposited every month with a polite note reminding you that you’ve traded your time, your energy, and a significant portion of your sanity for it. That number on your payslip?

That’s not compensation.

That’s silence.

That’s a payoff. It’s a bribe to keep your mouth shut. To keep you from asking questions. From speaking out. From walking out. It’s hush money.

You saw the product roadmap. You saw the layoffs. You know the execs are winging it. You’ve been in the all-hands meetings where words like “vision” and “alignment” float around like incense to mask the stench of chaos. You’ve smiled through team-building exercises and innovation sprints that felt more like punishment than progress. You’ve watched entire departments disappear overnight and been told to “trust the process.”
But you don’t say anything because you’re afraid to lose this job. You’ve got bills to pay and a family to support.

You don’t ask why the manager’s manager still has a job even though they produce nothing but vague slide decks and bad decisions. You don’t ask how “we’re like a family” turned into “we can’t guarantee your position after Q3.” You don’t ask how the company can afford another rebrand but not a cost-of-living adjustment. Because the money—meager as it is—still shows up in your bank account at the end of the month.

And that money buys your compliance.

Every time you click “Join” on another meeting that could have been an email, you’re cashing in a little piece of your soul for the illusion of stability. Every time you nod through feedback that makes no sense, you’re taking the hush money. Every time you work late because someone up the ladder can’t manage a calendar, you’re being paid not to scream.

You used to care. You used to believe in doing good work. But good work doesn’t protect you. Good work doesn’t keep you safe. Good work doesn’t pay more or make the stress go away.

So you stop raising concerns and you stop offering ideas. Long ago, you stopped expecting fairness. You turn off your camera and you check the fuck out. Hope is a city in Arkansas, and you’ve never been there.

“My salary is hush money” isn’t a joke. It’s the quiet part said out loud.

It’s the truth behind the forced smiles and the LinkedIn humblebrags. It’s the reason we don’t revolt. (Not yet, anyways). It’s why you didn’t walk away the last time they crossed the line. It’s why you keep showing up, even though you stopped being present a long time ago. Eventually, the money might stop. Maybe they’ll automate your job. Maybe the market will tank. But until then, they’ll keep paying. Not to reward your brilliance. Not to retain your talent. But to keep you from talking. To keep you from walking. To keep the machine running one more day.

So wear it like a badge. A scar. A warning.

My salary is hush money.