I Thought My Supervisor Was the Problem. I Was Wrong.

I once bought a psychology book called You Have More Influence Than You Think. I read only a few dozen pages before giving it to my father during the Spring Festival. One idea stayed with me: we tend to overestimate how much others are paying attention to us, and underestimate how much influence we have on them.

Later, my father told me he didn’t like psychology books. “I’m a simple person,” he said. “I don’t want to keep revisiting the past.” I understood him, and with life getting busy, I never picked the book up again.

Unexpectedly, while working in New Zealand — especially under the pressure of a difficult supervisor — that book kept returning to my mind. Some of its ideas quietly carried me through moments I didn’t know how else to survive.

We work on a schedule of ten days on and four days off. For the first four or five days, the supervisor is someone everyone likes: helpful, gentle, and easy to work with. Under him, there is no sense of pressure at all. But for the remaining days, the other supervisor looks unfriendly at first glance. He is strict with me, yet unusually tolerant of another colleague who is clearly slacking off. I interpreted him as a white male chauvinist who “thinks with his penis.”

Just thinking about having to work with him made me miserable. I even told myself silently that once my contract ended, I would leave immediately. And if the company tried to keep me — since I believed I worked especially hard — I would tell them that working with him was unbearable and that he deserved to be judged and punished.

But then I paused. Wasn’t I repeating the same old pattern again? Feeling wronged when I met someone I disliked, trying desperately, and eventually becoming the one who left. Could I really find a workplace where everyone was perfectly kind and friendly?

This forced me to examine where the problem actually lay.

First, was he only strict with me? No. He spoke to others in the same tone. When did he use that tone? When tasks weren’t done well enough. He checked my work — but other supervisors also check others’ work. That’s simply part of the standard process.

As for why he seemed friendlier toward the colleague who slacked off, I later learned that this colleague had joined during the low season. Back then there were few customers, and the two of them had spent long hours doing deep cleaning together, enduring a difficult period side by side.

Once I accepted that he wasn’t a malicious person, I began to observe his daily life more closely. He seemed somewhat lonely. He didn’t sit with us during meals, didn’t join group activities, and always went to the kitchen to cook when there were fewer people around. It felt as though everyone was subtly excluding him — you could tell even from how rarely people greeted him. Although he put on an air of indifference, he couldn’t possibly be unaffected by this.

One day after work, a new colleague asked me what I thought of him. I felt a jolt of tension — why did everyone keep asking such personal questions? I had plenty of complaints, but I didn’t know where the other person stood, so I mentioned something negative and then something positive, such as that he could be picky but always demonstrated tasks for us. That was true. The colleague responded, “I heard he’s hard to get along with.”

I couldn’t help venting after all. “During the drill just now, there was clearly a hook we could have used. I asked him about it, and he said, ‘Why should I make things so comfortable for you?’” I could only laugh awkwardly.

I began to suspect that this might be connected to a harsh upbringing — caregivers unable to offer support, using moral manipulation to force children to endure difficulties alone, making them feel that expressing needs is shameful. Children who grow up in such isolation often carry this pattern into adulthood, and even into how they treat others.

Once, during an LSA (life saving apparatus) drill, he had us wear helmets. Later the captain asked why, and only then did he realize it wasn’t necessary. Embarrassed, he said it was just practice and not a big deal.

No one actually blamed him, but he seemed unable to let it go. Before leaving, he even deliberately prompted the captain’s child: “Do you think wearing a helmet is the right thing?” The child, answering from basic common sense, said yes. He looked visibly relieved, as if he had won something.

From this perspective, the suffering inside him might be greater than that of someone who can accept criticism, because on the surface he still has to pretend he doesn’t care.

After realizing this, I felt an urge to show him more care or appreciation. My feelings were complicated. I wasn’t sure whether this was a kind of self-protective rationalization — trying to justify the person who oppressed me in order to avoid facing real pain. I also worried that I might be trying to “influence” him in exchange for better treatment, which would feel manipulative or harmful. So I constantly reminded myself: don’t try to change him. If I choose to respect or understand him, it should simply be as one human being to another. Even if he continued to be harsh because of his own limitations, I would not blame myself for being unable to remain completely indifferent.

From then on, every morning when I saw him in the prep room, I would greet him loudly. If I saw him in the kitchen after work, I would greet him loudly again. I knew this behavior came naturally — it reflected that I had enough inner strength. I believed he could feel the sincerity.

Previously, another colleague had trained me on the till twice, and I still didn’t even know all the product names. Yet this supervisor let me handle the register alone. He said, “We’re short-staffed today. You can do it.”

In China, I would never have dared. But here, I wasn’t afraid. I had observed that even if mistakes happened, the company wouldn’t make employees pay out of pocket, and no one would be yelled at. With no fear of consequences, I worked quickly and accurately. Over two crusings, three hours in total, I sold 1,800 NZD worth of food. When we reconciled the cash, the difference was only a few dollars. Everyone was happy for me. The supervisor said, “Now you’re one of my important ‘assets.’ Let the other ‘slaves’ do the cleaning.”

I thought I had misheard. “You said slaves?” He shrugged, back to his world-weary tone. I said, “Don’t joke like that.” But that really was his style of humor — using sharpness to keep people at a distance, hiding behind the safety of “failure.”

The first person who helped me notice this trait was my Korean colleague, Jingjing. One day I complimented him, saying his legs were long like a model’s. He immediately replied, “Have you wiped your buffet counter clean?” I felt awkward, but Jingjing said, “Ohhh, he’s shy.” Sure enough, he turned away embarrassed.

Laury, a new colleague, had also heard others’ opinions about him. One day after work, when we were having drinks with the popular supervisor, Laury asked if training could wait until he came back on shift. But in reality, the next day I saw this supervisor training her on the dishwasher cleaning process, and he was the one doing all the dirty, knee-on-the-floor tasks.

After work, I said to Laury, “Actually, training with him isn’t that scary, right?” Just as I finished speaking, I looked up and saw him coming upstairs. Perfect timing. Once again I greeted him loudly and told him we had just been talking about him. He immediately asked, defensively, “What were you saying? That I’m terrible?” I replied, “Of course not. We all think you’re great.” He tried to deflect with another self-deprecating joke: “Fine, fine. Now I’m going upstairs to meet important people. You ordinary folks stay down here.” I responded, “Say what you like, but we all know that’s not what you mean.”

I don’t want to claim that my efforts changed anything. But from a certain point on, I noticed that instead of saying “Fuck off after work,” he began saying gently, “Go enjoy your lives.”

I believe something in the atmosphere shifted — something that allowed him to try being gentle and vulnerable, knowing that even if he lowered his guard, he wouldn’t be attacked.

Even more interestingly, one day I saw that he had liked one of my posts on social media (see — don’t underestimate your influence). The next day when I saw him, I thanked him. He said, “Your energy is really encouraging.” I asked, “You like it, don’t you?” He smiled shyly and said, “Keep it up.”

I was especially happy. From that day on, I started using his real name, Cam, in my writing. Before, I had used a code name, afraid that if he ever saw my writing, it might feel awkward.

A harmonious environment truly benefits everyone. That day at the register, when an urgent situation arose, I immediately contacted him on the radio. Throughout the whole process, he never once criticized me. He just said, “Okay, coming.” Through these moments, we built trust.

One day, when the waves were rough and I felt seasick, he mockingly imitated the way I looked when vomiting. I rushed over and tickled his waist. That moment broke down many barriers between us.

Another time after work, as we were about to board the shuttle, he passed by. I asked, “Why do you never take the shuttle with us?” He said he preferred to walk. I said, “But we want you to ride with us,” and tried to pull him along. He was so embarrassed that he struggled free and said, “The weather’s so nice, why would I take the bus? I’m walking.”

On the eighth day of my third ten-day shift, I finally realized I no longer felt any psychological burden at work. I also understood that entering too quickly into other people’s narratives is, to some extent, a way the brain conserves energy to protect itself — but it can also solidify our relationships with people and events. Real change, for both sides, often happens when we choose a different perspective or a different response.

From now on, I no longer fear “difficult” supervisors.