Make no mistake, employees will always be just a line item.

As the world turns and countries and companies are still swirling in the latest round of primordial goo, it’s a good time to remind those who are employed and seeking employment that at the end of the day, you are nothing but a line item. The dedication and devotion you give, or hope to again some day, is disposible.

It’s not my intention to add to the anxiety you’re already carrying—but after reading Adam Argyle’s post Googler… ex-Googler, more folks need to hear it. Feel it.

No matter what you do for the company you work for—no matter how hard you try, how loyal you are, or how much you shape its future—when the time comes, you will be unceremoniously ripped away from the mission you were building, the people you collaborated with, and the vision you poured yourself into.

Highly likely without so much as a thank you.

Last night, my role at Google was eliminated. I'm quite sick to my stomach, extremely sad, and even more angry. argyle@google.com is no more. Just like that. I'm told this comes as a shock to my managers and other Chrome team leaders. I'm told it's not based on merit. I'm told I could find another role.

But I was also immediately ripped away from my calendar, docs, code, and more. Anything nice anyone has to say is immediately met with reality, and reality says "don't let the door hit you on the way out." If I was really welcome to another role, why treat me like a criminal?

I feel back stabbed, unappreciated, tossed in the trash. I can't sleep. I'm ashamed. I'm pissed.

I really was just a fuckin cog in a mega corp.

But this kind of treatment isn’t limited to “mega corp."

My last full-time role was as president of a company of fifteen people. Tiny. The owner personally asked me to come aboard, run the company, and help evolve its products and services. When I arrived, the place was rudderless and functioning on default. I turned it around. I taught people new skills. I handed over ownership of key initiatives. And the team delivered.

We were finally gaining momentum. But the family business shenanigans—the games, the dysfunction, the nepotism—became too much. After a year, I gave four weeks’ written notice—as you do when you’re running the company.

To which I received no reply.

The next morning I tried to log into email: error. Slack: gone. Google Drive: access denied. I had been completely cut off—without a single word.

When I called or texted directors, they claimed not to know what was going on. Radio silence. I didn’t hear from the “CEO” until that afternoon via email. “It’s nothing personal,” he wrote, “This is just what you do when someone gives their notice."

Bullshit.

I’ve led teams since I was barely out of school. I know what’s “just what you do.” You don’t treat someone who gives notice like they were fired for cause. And even when you have to let someone go, you treat them with dignity. With humanity. With grace.

I spent a year investing in people. I was robbed of the chance to close things out, set the team up for success, and say goodbye. Even though I’ve moved on it still stings. I did nothing to deserve how I was treated.

The year before I was laid off by InVision, the most toxic company I’ve ever worked for, but I still got time to close things out with my team and people I worked with.

Let’s not pretend otherwise: if you’re working for someone else, you’re a cog in the machine. Doesn’t matter if it’s a team of fifteen or a corporation of one hundred and fifty thousand—you’re a line item. When the moment comes, your access will be revoked. Your contributions erased. Your potential deleted without hesitation.

If this hasn’t happened to you yet, consider yourself lucky. But don’t mistake that luck for value of your work to the company you serve.