I’m a writer with some design skills, so when our designer quit, I tried to be a team player and offered to help with an urgent presentation. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time because the agency was small and we were all under a lot of pressure. I spent my weekend perfecting the slides, choosing the right typography, and making sure the color palette popped. The client loved it, and for a brief moment, I felt like a hero in our little office in East London. But that feeling didn’t last long once Monday morning rolled around.
After that, my boss, a man named Sterling who prioritized profit margins over people, refused to hire a new designer and expected me to do everything. He didn’t ask if I had the capacity; he just started BCC-ing me on design briefs as if I’d magically transitioned into a dual role overnight. My actual writing work began to suffer because I was too busy messing with vector files and high-resolution renders. I was essentially doing two full-time jobs for the salary of one, and my “team player” badge was starting to feel like a ball and chain.
I tried to have a reasonable conversation with him about it, but Sterling was the kind of guy who thought a “can-do attitude” was a substitute for a fair wage. He’d just pat me on the back and say things like, “You’re our secret weapon, Arthur,” or “Think of the portfolio you’re building.” It was classic corporate gaslighting, and I could see my burnout coming from a mile away. I realized that by being helpful, I had accidentally proven that the company could survive without a dedicated designer as long as they had me to exploit.
I’d had enough of the late nights and the constant pixel-pushing that wasn’t even in my job description. I decided that if Sterling wanted to treat me like a machine, I would show him exactly how much it costs to keep that machine running. I didn’t go to HR, and I didn’t start a fight in the middle of a meeting. Instead, I spent a week quietly documenting every single minute I spent on design tasks versus my actual copywriting duties.
So, I left him speechless when I walked into his office on Friday afternoon and handed him a very specific type of invoice. It wasn’t a resignation letter, though I had one of those tucked in my back pocket just in case things went south. It was a bill for “Freelance Creative Services” at the standard London market rate for an experienced designer. I had calculated every hour I’d spent on graphics over the last two months, and the total was nearly half of my annual salary.
Sterling stared at the paper, his face turning a shade of pale that matched the whiteboards in the conference room. “What is this, Arthur? You’re a salaried employee,” he stammered, his usual confidence evaporating into thin air. I looked him dead in the eye and explained that my contract was for a copywriter, a role that I was still performing at a high level. Any work outside of those specific parameters was a voluntary contribution that I was now formalizing as a professional service.
I told him that he had two choices: he could pay the invoice and hire a new designer by Monday, or I would be taking my design skills—and my writing—to the competitor across the street. I knew for a fact that they were looking for someone with my exact hybrid skill set, and I’d already had a casual coffee with their creative director. Sterling was trapped, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t have a snappy comeback or a motivational quote to save him.
The silence in that office was heavy, and for a few seconds, I thought he might actually fire me on the spot. But then he looked at the list of projects I’d saved over the last few weeks, projects that would have cost him a fortune if he’d gone to an outside agency. He realized that I wasn’t just a writer who knew a bit of Photoshop; I was the only thing keeping his biggest accounts from falling apart. He cleared his throat, sat back in his expensive leather chair, and sighed.
“I can’t pay this all at once,” he muttered, looking at the bottom line of the invoice. I told him that was fine, and I offered him a compromise that I had been planning for weeks. I wanted a permanent salary increase that reflected my dual value, a dedicated junior designer to handle the grunt work, and a title change to Creative Lead. If he agreed, I’d waive the back-pay invoice as a gesture of “team loyalty,” but the new terms would be effective immediately.
Sterling took the deal because he didn’t have a choice, and the rewarding part was seeing the shift in the office dynamic. Within two weeks, we had a new hire named Toby who was brilliant at the technical side of design, which allowed me to focus on the big-picture creative direction. I wasn’t the office’s “secret weapon” anymore; I was a respected leader who had set a boundary and stood by it. The work improved, the clients were happier, and for the first time in years, I was actually leaving the office at five o’clock.
A month later, during the annual agency awards ceremony, we won a major prize for the very presentation that had started this whole mess, the one I’d stayed up all weekend to finish. When Sterling went up to accept the trophy, he didn’t take the credit for himself like he usually did. He called me up to the stage and publicly apologized for nearly burning out his best talent. He admitted to the whole room that he’d forgotten that the most valuable asset in an agency isn’t the software or the clients, but the people who make the magic happen.
I realized then that Sterling wasn’t necessarily a bad person; he was just a man who had become blinded by the numbers. He needed someone to hold up a mirror and show him the human cost of his management style. By standing up for myself, I hadn’t just saved my own career; I had actually helped him become a better boss. The agency started to thrive in a way it never had before because the staff felt seen and protected.
The lesson I took away from all this is that being a “team player” shouldn’t mean being a doormat. We often think that by saying “yes” to everything, we are proving our worth, but all we’re really doing is training people to take advantage of us. True loyalty is about providing value while maintaining your own integrity and self-respect. If you don’t set your own price, the world will always try to get you at a discount.
I’m still at that agency today, but the culture is completely different now. We have clear job descriptions, fair wages, and a boss who actually listens when someone says they’re overwhelmed. I still use my design skills, but only when I want to, and always with the recognition that it’s an extra layer of expertise, not a basic requirement. I learned that the best way to help a team is to make sure you’re in a position where you can actually be helpful, rather than just exhausted.
Don’t be afraid to show people your invoice, even if it’s not a literal piece of paper. Your time, your energy, and your unique skills have a market value, and you are the only one who can decide what that is. If you feel like you’re being used, you probably are, and the only person who can change that narrative is you. It takes a lot of courage to step into the boss’s office and demand what you’re worth, but the view from the other side is definitely worth the risk.
I hope my story encourages someone else out there who is currently doing “just one extra thing” that has turned into a whole second job. Remember that your career is a marathon, not a sprint, and you can’t finish the race if you’re carrying everyone else’s luggage. Stand tall, know your numbers, and never be afraid to speak up when the balance is off. You might just find that the person you’re most afraid of is actually just waiting for you to lead the way.
If this story resonated with you or helped you realize your own value, please share and like this post. We all need a reminder every now and then that our hard work deserves more than just a pat on the back. I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments—have you ever had to set a major boundary at work? Would you like me to help you figure out how to advocate for yourself in your current role?
