There are some things I’d like you to know, but we so rarely sit down to speak face to face. On the odd occasion when we do, I have the feeling that you are going through the motions; like the smile that doesn’t reach the corners of your eyes, it feels fake.
You might wonder why I feel like this, why my foot is half out of the door on a job that I love. Isn’t the work itself – helping young people at risk of social exclusion and marginalisation – meaningful enough?
I’ve spent an afternoon with a young person in floods of tears because she can’t get work. I have another person worried because her housemates are addicted to drugs and she doesn’t feel safe. I’m not able to make these situations go away. In my role there’s a risk of becoming desensitised to the struggles these young people face. But the very reason I do my job is because I feel acutely the injustice that affects the people I work with.
I’m proud of the in-depth work I do to support young people, but there’s increasingly little room for it. The people I’m supporting face serious financial, social and emotional difficulties in their lives. And each person needs far more attention than I’m allowed to give.
Every day I have to make a choice: people or targets. I can either support young people with their dreams and aspirations and try to lessen the barriers they face and miss targets, or I can work quickly “speed supporting” individuals, hitting targets, but making little tangible impact on their lives.
I’m expected to deliver a conveyor belt of success stories that can be churned out for the media. This means a large part of my job isn’t helping the very people who need it, but marketing their stories.
What would really help me is for you to talk openly about the struggle between helping people and meeting targets. Making these decisions alone leaves me feeling emotionally drained. I love my job, but I keep thinking about leaving. And statistics show I’m not the only one – staff turnover in the third sector is much higher than average.
If you only had time to listen, things could be different. You never ask for my opinion. I understand that you need to be business-focused. I’m aware of the economic uncertainty of austerity and cuts. But does it not make business sense to listen to your employees, and keep them, so you don’t have to waste resources constantly training new staff?
Being excluded from decision-making takes the greatest toll on those at the bottom, who either buckle under the pressure or leave the sector – which ultimately affects the very young people we are trying to protect.
It’s your responsibility to lead us, not ignore us. Leading means collaborating, cultivating trust, valuing the opinion of others, and listening when we tell you: it’s not working.
All the training, wellbeing initiatives, or new processes can’t fix an organisation that doesn’t listen, value or support its frontline staff. Better pay might make it harder to leave, but we work in the third sector because we care, not for the money. As a boss, you need to put people first – your staff and the young people we represent – not targets.
- Would you like to write an anonymous letter to your boss for this series? Get in touch by emailing careers.desk@theguardian.com
