Negative Nag: The Gatekeeper Who Can’t Block My Voice
If you’ve been following my journey, you already know about Negative Nag — the self-appointed queen of complaints in the workplace of a job I’ve been on for a short time. She’s loud, she’s whiny, and she always makes sure her opinion takes up the most space in the room. Whether anyone asked for it or not, she’s going to speak. And when I say speak, I mean dominate, correct, control, and manipulate.
What I haven’t shared in full until now is just how deep her need for control really goes. She’s not just a bully — she’s a gatekeeper.
You know the type. The one who decides who’s allowed in, who’s cast out, and who needs to be silenced. Negative Nag manipulates perceptions like it’s her superpower. She uses gossip as currency and triangulation as her favorite tool. And her favorite targets? The ones who don’t play along — especially the neurodivergent ones like me. We don’t conform. We question. We see through it — and that threatens her entire game.
She can’t stand that I don’t seek her approval. That I don’t bow to her power plays. That her tactics — silent treatment, gossip, isolation, one-upping — fall flat with me. She tries to make me the outsider, and truthfully? I prefer it. I don’t want to be inside any circle built on manipulation and fear.
Let me tell you about one of my favorite moments — the day I silenced her noise. Not with force. Not with attitude. Just truth.
She and her little inner circle — The Friend of Nag and The Triangulated Flying Monkey — were arguing (loudly, of course) about the location of a venue. I was trying to work. Headphones weren’t in yet, so I heard it all. After a while, I calmly inserted truth: “The venue is at the main entrance. That’s the only way anyone can enter.”
Boom. Silence.
But then came the projection — that strange spiritual heaviness. Like she was casting a net of fear, hoping I’d tremble at the thought of her wrath. But I didn’t. I don’t. I won’t.
I’ve since learned the art of peace: headphones in, soothing office sounds on, and I don’t even hear her anymore. That’s what self-care looks like when you work near a gatekeeper who thrives off chaos.
Here’s what she can’t stand: I’m not afraid of her silent treatment. I love it. It’s the only time the office breathes. I’m not fazed by her schemes. I’m not moving according to her manipulation. I don’t cower. I thrive. I was planted here by God for a purpose, and when He says it’s time to go, I’ll go — not a minute sooner.
So she can keep her gates. Guard them. Rattle her keys. Try to lock me out. But what she doesn’t realize is this:
I’m not trying to enter her gate. I came to break it down.
My voice is unchained. Her tactics don’t move me. Her projections don’t stick. And her gate? It’s already coming apart.
My Voice Unchained 