By Violet Nance
Web Portfolio Contributor · July 2025
I did not arrive in the field of information technology seeking disruption; instead, my journey began with the understanding that silence possesses its own syntax, a complex language I have dedicated years to deciphering.
Before I became adept at styling code, I honed my skills in managing silence: the cacophony of chaos in bustling retail stockrooms, the unexpressed grief lingering behind the cash registers, and the necessity of maintaining a facade of tranquility. At the same time, the systems around me threatened to unravel. My role was never limited to merely overseeing people; I was engaged in the profound task of managing impact. This included addressing not only physical loss or shrinkage but also the emotional toll exacted by navigating through fractured systems. My fourteen-year tenure in retail equipped me with invaluable insights into compliance protocols, troubleshooting methods, and leadership dynamics (Hochschild, 1983; Ashkanasy & Daus, 2005).
However, it also provided me with a deeper understanding of how systems respond to trauma and the tendency they must favor survival instinct over necessary reform, often responding to probing inquiries with an oppressive silence that communicates: “do not ask again.”
When I transitioned to web development, I did not abandon the wisdom gleaned from my previous experiences; instead, I carried those lessons forward. HTML, CSS, and JavaScript were not merely tools at my disposal; they were new dialects in the same conversation I had been practicing for years, one centered on illuminating the hidden layers of our experiences. In the realm of coding, I discovered a semblance of structure amidst the chaos. This newfound order led me to grasp the concept of authorship. Through that lens, I recognized that my ability to navigate emotional nuances was not merely a personal quirk but a robust professional asset.
I did not require formal credentials to grasp the stark differences between a system engineered for efficiency and one designed to facilitate exploitation; I had lived through the latter. Now, I devote my efforts to constructing the former, both on digital screens and through written essays, as well as in legacy archives where memories are preserved in their full complexity and do not get flattened out. Yes, I write code. However, beyond that, I create maps of understanding. I document the untold stories and connections, determined to break the chains of silence that have concealed so many narratives, including my own.
I’ve been immersed in environments that proudly touted their efficiency yet quietly suffered from gaping wounds in their operational fabric. The inefficiency was not merely about miscounted inventory or inflated payroll hours; it stemmed from the emotional toll exacted daily to patch up the faulty logic ingrained in the system. It was a design built on a foundation of silence, where adherence to protocols was valued over genuine engagement, and the relentless pressure was mistaken for resilience.
Consider the chaotic “visit” cycle. Whenever Dollar General corporate scheduled a visit, be it for an investor walk-through or one of the company’s carefully staged “Dollar Days,” district managers throughout the region were thrust into a frenzied survival mode. The message was unequivocal: achieve cosmetic perfection, no matter the cost. Planograms were hastily reset to meet expectations, floors were polished to a shine, backrooms were cleared of clutter, and any signs of disarray were tactically obscured. Displays were meticulously arranged not for practicality but for the visual impact they would have on visiting executives. These occasions were not about identifying solutions or extending support; they were little more than a performance review. Stores transformed into theatrical stages, while the grueling effort exerted behind the scenes remained invisible. The teams on the front lines, already stretched thin and grappling with feelings of exhaustion and neglect, were left to prioritize emphasis on appearance over reality. The intriguing question remained unasked: what did this ritual cost us, aside from fleeting applause? It was not just a failure of leadership; it was a profound misallocation of human resources, an entire web of potential redirected toward superficial optics rather than meaningful operations. The entire script was crafted by individuals who had never faced the rigors of implementation.
Then there’s the issue of loss prevention. Shrink metrics were treated as definitive indicators of success or failure, devoid of context (National Retail Federation, 2023). The default assumption was always that losses pointed to theft, whether from customers, employees, or dubious characters lurking near the checkout lines. However, I understood the deeper narratives behind those numbers. I could discern which losses were driven by desperation, which hinted at more profound moral dilemmas, and which were the byproducts of structural inefficiencies. Stores were stretched perilously thin, employees were emotionally worn out, and while the figures spoke clearly, they needed someone skilled enough to interpret their true meanings.
What often went unspoken was the frailty of the inventory management system itself, its inflexible routing protocols, persistent shortages that seemed to plague every shipment, and the corporate structure's stubborn refusal to allow Store Managers the autonomy to verify incoming deliveries for accuracy. Shipments frequently arrived incomplete, damaged, or with incorrect counts. Despite this, managers were unjustly held accountable for “losses,” facing repercussions for discrepancies occurring outside their control. This scenario did not represent theft; it illustrated a glaring blind spot in the backend operations masquerading as a frontline issue. The systemic flaw punished initiative and insight while favoring silence and compliance. The term "shrink" did not necessarily imply theft; instead, it indicated the struggle of individuals trying to navigate a flawed system that resisted change. This was not a security measure; it was an antiquated procedure that rejected new information while erroneously attributing blame to those tasked with meeting unrealistic expectations.
I vividly recall a moment when I opened a sealed tote that was supposed to contain high-value electronic devices. The exterior packaging was immaculate, smooth, intact, and undeniably professional, yet upon inspection, the products were missing entirely, seemingly extracted somewhere upstream in the supply chain. I was the one who broke the seal, meaning the theft did not occur during transit. When I escalated the issue to a corporate official, I was met not with concern or understanding, but rather an uncomfortable stare, as if my observation were a mere irritation. No thorough investigation followed, nor was there any resolution. Instead, I was forced to “damage out” the items, as if an entire tote filled with nothing but empty cartons were just another minor logistical blunder. However, it was so much more than that; it was a glaring indicator of systemic breakdown, marked by theft, opaque operations, and a refusal to confront vulnerability (Namie & Namie, 2009). The metrics surrounding shrinkage rarely captured these kinds of losses, instead serving as a blunt instrument to blame store staff while conveniently overlooking the gaps in the supply chain. That experience crystallized for me the nature of the system I was entrenched in: one that prioritized sealed containers over the uncomfortable truths lurking beneath the surface.
Moreover, I pondered the implications of burnout or personal loss among colleagues. When grief struck or emotional turmoil was unchecked, the operational machinery did not slow down; it ramped up, amplifying stress and pressure. I have stood shoulder to shoulder with individuals wrestling with the pain of losing parents or children, escaping abusive relationships, and battling silent, often invisible struggles. There was no cushion, no space for human vulnerability, only relentless performance metrics that demanded even more. This was a brittle framework: a façade of resilience built on the ignorance of emotional realities.
Even the training modules epitomized this expectation of compliance. The protocols we were directed to follow were not crafted to foster curiosity or accommodate the complexities of human experience; they read like scripts formulated for machines devoid of nuance. Yet, we were not mere automatons. We served as emotional translators, crafting solutions within an environment far too rigid to adapt. It was akin to software lacking a user interface, engineered for pure efficiency but utterly disconnected from the needs of the people engaging with it.
I had mastered nuanced fluency in a language that often went unrecognized, the unspoken dynamics of the workplace. I could decode the undercurrents of pain lurking beneath the surface of compliance, transform moments of silence into insightful strategies, and fortify our team's morale with a blend of empathy and resilience. However, the organization failed to acknowledge this skill, relegating it to the realm of invisible labor. My role as an emotional translator, operating at scale, came with a heavy toll that went unnoticed, not just by upper management, but by the very teams I sought to uplift.
Corporate officials would not articulate it directly, but the message was clear: I was asking too many questions. Each time I identified a flaw in our processes, traced an error back to its source, or dared to challenge a policy that others tiptoed around, I could feel the atmosphere grow tense. My unyielding curiosity was met not with enthusiasm, but with a palpable sense of containment. I encountered unanswered questions that hung in the air like unresolved notes, and the weight of disapproving stares warned me not to pursue specific inquiries any further. I was acutely aware when I had crossed an invisible line, not because my perspective was misguided, but because my vision was uncomfortably clear.
Although District Managers possessed a wealth of knowledge, they too were constrained by corporate protocols, adhering rigidly to a script that discouraged creative thinking. My consequences were not overtly punitive; instead, I experienced a more subtle form of being “managed”. I was redirected, pushed to embrace a narrative that once felt alien to me. The friction I felt was subtly implied to be my fault for having the audacity to articulate the discrepancies I witnessed. I was not seen as a threat; instead, I was deemed inconvenient. In a culture meticulously designed to reward unthinking compliance and silent execution, my inclination to ask probing questions became a calculated risk that often left me feeling isolated.
Technology extends far beyond the mere act of coding; it encompasses the crafting of user experiences that deeply resonate on an emotional level. In my approach to developing digital environments, I prioritize emotions as integral data points rather than distractions. Feelings such as grief, frustration, silence, and resistance are not mere interruptions; they fundamentally constitute the fabric of the system itself. Neglecting these emotional elements ultimately leads to design failures (Trauma-Informed Design Society, n.d.).
I have witnessed firsthand the insidious spread of burnout that occurs when a digital infrastructure is unable to bear the weight of emotional demands. I’ve observed the fracturing of leadership communities, a consequence of traditional training methods that prioritize emotional suppression over adaptive learning. Within every one of these disruptions lies a crucial signal, a stark reality waiting to be acknowledged. My role now involves gathering these signals, articulating their significance, and incorporating them into the design process.
The idea of emotional translation goes beyond just sensitivity; it is like a thorough debugging process on a large scale. This approach helps me identify potential design flaws before they lead to user dissatisfaction or churn. It would guide how I create documentation that not only explains functionalities but also consider the real-world problems users encounter. When someone asks about the importance of margins, I would not just show the underlying code; I can share the stories and memories woven into those design choices. Each interface is a threshold, and when the user crosses it, they bring their own history with them.
What if what I engage in goes beyond just building narratives; it involves repairing essential infrastructure. By acknowledging the impact of legacy experiences, I can ensure my designs are connected and integrated. I can carefully map the systems I create on top of each user's unique stories, understanding that trauma doesn't disappear when a user logs in; it influences every part of their interaction, from the settings menu and UI choices to the tone of error messages they see. Ethical information technology is about more than just safeguarding privacy and accessibility; it requires systems to handle emotional truths without breaking down under pressure.
Efficiency, then, should not be misconstrued as a mere pursuit of speed. True efficiency lies in creating systems that are robust enough to support the weight of emotional realities, ultimately leading to more resilient, user-centered designs that honor the complexities of user experience.
I did not write this to vent my frustrations. I crafted these words because I have navigated complex systems that often equate silence with efficiency, perceive endurance as a mark of resilience, and interpret emotional labor as a demonstration of loyalty. My observations span various environments, from break rooms buzzing with unsaid sentiments to the meticulous rows of data in spreadsheets, and from the stark guidelines in training manuals to the profound insights gathered from trauma research. As I embark on the journey of building technology, I carry with me a deep wealth of knowledge.
In our discussions about scalability, uptime, and security, we often overlook an essential aspect: the unspoken grief that is interwoven within these systems. There is burnout lurking in ticket queues, and emotional translation occurs subtly behind the façade of login forms. Too often, we treat these emotional frictions as mere performance issues when, in truth, they serve as vital evidence, proof that our technological infrastructures still fail to accommodate the intricate tapestry of human emotions.
If you are involved in creating systems, whether technical platforms, organizational frameworks, or cultural architecture, you require more than just impeccable code syntax. What is crucial is cultivating candor. Emotional fluency shouldn't be seen as a weakness; it is akin to version control that protects against the repercussions of past damage (Chrobot-Mason et al., 2020). It encapsulates strategic foresight under the guise of empathy and is the comprehensive audit that you might wish you had in place before everything began to unravel.
What we truly need are not louder systems but rather those that possess the capacity to listen.
So, here is my earnest plea: Construct your projects as if someone genuinely understands that survival encompasses its own distinct language. Document your processes like an individual who understands that inherited pain deserves a thorough changelog. Write your code in a way that accommodates emotional truths, ensuring it doesn't trigger catastrophic failures.
Because true efficiency is not merely about increasing speed; it is about finally developing systems capable of bearing emotional truths while continuing to function, evolve, and, most importantly, listen.