The Ladder Climber

I slipped through the glass doors of InnovateX, my leather-bound notebook pressed against my chest like armor. The office hummed with nervous energy—leadership promotions were coming, and everyone knew it.

"Morning, Lily," called Marco from his desk as I passed.

I managed a smile, though my thoughts were elsewhere. In my notebook, I'd documented a pattern that grew more concerning by the day. Rex Thompson's name featured prominently, underlined three times on yesterday's page.

The morning briefing was already underway when I slid into my usual seat. Rex stood at the front, his silver-streaked hair perfectly coiffed, gesturing toward slides on the digital screen.

"…and that's why I've developed this approach to targeting our millennial demographic," he announced, straightening his designer tie.

My jaw clenched. That strategy had been Amira's brainchild. I'd watched her work late for weeks refining it, only to have her miss today's meeting for a client emergency.

Rex caught my gaze and his smile never faltered, though something cold flickered in his eyes. He knew I knew. And clearly, he didn't care.

I closed my office door as Sam and three other team members gathered around my small conference table. The energy in the room felt heavy, weighted with unspoken frustration.

"I've had enough," Sam said, pushing a strand of colourful hair behind their ear. "Look at this."

Sam slid their tablet toward me, open to an email thread. There it was in black and white—Rex had forwarded Sam's detailed market analysis to senior leadership with a new header: "Thompson Market Strategy Overview."

"He didn't even change the wording," Javier muttered, adjusting his glasses. "Just slapped his name on it."

I scrolled through the document, my stomach tightening. The analysis had taken Sam weeks to complete—late nights and meticulous research all claimed in a single email.

"What are we supposed to do?" Elena asked. "His numbers look amazing to leadership because he's stealing all our work."

I glanced at their expectant faces, then back to the evidence on the screen. The right thing to do seemed clear, but Rex's relationship with the executive team was bulletproof. His performance metrics consistently topped the department charts—now I understood why.

"I don't know yet," I admitted. "But this isn't right."

That evening, I collapsed onto my sofa, the weight of the day still pressing on my shoulders. I kicked off my shoes and reached for my phone, opening the Difference Makers podcast, my guilty pleasure and secret mentor during these corporate battles.

John's warm, resonant voice filled my living room as I closed my eyes.

"Today we're discussing how our brains assess others in the workplace," he began. "Here's something fascinating: competence tells you what someone can do; character reveals who they truly are."

I sat up straighter, suddenly alert.

"When we evaluate someone's skills or achievements," John continued, "different neural pathways activate than when we're assessing their integrity or trustworthiness. Research shows the amygdala, our brain's emotional processing centre, activates differently when we assess character versus competence."

I thought of Rex's impeccable presentations and undeniable results… and the stolen work that created them.

"Our brains inherently recognise that what someone can accomplish matters far less than who they are while accomplishing it," John said. "This isn't just intuition—it's hardwired into our neurobiology."

I reached for my notebook, scribbling frantically as the words illuminated the discomfort I'd been feeling.

I woke the next morning with those words still echoing in my mind. While making coffee, I opened my leather-bound notebook to a fresh page and carefully drew a line down the middle, creating two distinct columns.

"Evidence" I wrote at the top of the left column. "Interpretation" I labeled the right.

"Focus on what you see with your eyes, and hear with your ears, not what you feel," I reminded myself, recalling the guidance about separating actions from judgments. The podcast had explained how our brains often make character assessments too quickly, blurring the line between observed behavior and emotional response.

Under "Evidence," I wrote my first entry: "Rex presented Amira's millennial strategy as his own (March 15 meeting)." In the second column: "Pattern of claiming others' work, not isolated incident."

I sipped my coffee, feeling clearer. This wasn't about disliking Rex or his ambition—it was about documenting a pattern of behaviours that undermined the team. By keeping my observations objective and systematic, I could address the problem rather than the person.

"Patterns reveal character," John had said. And patterns were exactly what I intended to document.

I spent the next week in observation mode, my notebook becoming a detailed record of Rex's interactions. On Tuesday, I witnessed him captivate the Meridian account team with charm and insights that had them nodding appreciatively.

"Brilliant presentation, Rex," their CEO had said, shaking his hand.

Twenty minutes later, I watched that same Rex snap at Emma from design when she asked a clarifying question about timeline expectations.

"If you can't keep up, perhaps we need someone who can," he'd muttered, just loud enough for those nearby to hear.

During lunch on Thursday, Gareth from accounting confirmed what I suspected.

"Everyone sees it," he whispered, glancing around the canteen. "But who's going to say anything? Man's practically bulletproof with the executive team."

Each evening, I added to my evidence column: "Interrupted Priya three times in strategy meeting." "Took credit for Diego's customer retention solution." "Publicly praised Steven (senior team member) while ignoring identical suggestion from Amira (junior) made earlier."

No accusations. No judgments. Just behaviours, dates, and witnesses. The patterns emerging more clearly with each entry.

I stood at the front of the boardroom, my presentation slides reflecting off the polished table. My heart thumped steadily as I walked the executive team through our quarterly forecast. The evidence I'd been gathering about Rex sat heavy in my mind, but today wasn't about that, it was about the Henderson project data.

"As you can see from these customer engagement metrics—"

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Lily," Rex's voice sliced through mine, "but I have concerns about your methodology."

The room stilled. My fingers tightened around my clicker.

"Your sample size is inadequate for the conclusions you're drawing," he continued, leaning forward with practiced concern. "The executive team needs reliable data for decision-making."

"Actually," I replied, keeping my voice level, "the sample represents twenty-three percent of our user base, which exceeds industry standards for…"

"Perhaps if you had my experience," Rex cut in, his smile not reaching his eyes, "you'd understand why your approach won't work."

The silence that followed was deafening. I caught Director Chen's slight frown, saw Marketing VP Davis glance uncomfortably at his notes.

My carefully constructed analysis crumbled inside me. The presentation continued somehow, my voice hollow in my ears. But walking back to my office, doubt crashed over me in waves. Maybe I wasn't qualified to challenge someone like Rex after all.

Renewed Perspective

That evening, I crawled into bed exhausted, my confidence in tatters. Almost by reflex, I reached for my phone and tapped the Difference Makers icon. John's voice filled my darkened room, somehow knowing exactly what I needed.

"Today we're discussing resilience in assessment," he began. "When gathering evidence, we must guard against confirmation bias, our tendency to only notice information that supports our existing beliefs."

I sat up straighter, suddenly alert.

"Remember," John continued, his voice warm but firm, "we evaluate behaviour, not personhood. The distinction matters because it keeps us objective and fair, even when dealing with difficult colleagues."

My notebook lay open beside me. Had I been fair to Rex? Was I gathering evidence objectively, or only noticing what confirmed my suspicions?

An ancient proverb surfaced in my mind: "Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it."

I realised then that defending our team's culture required more than my personal observations. I needed substantial evidence from diverse sources, and I needed to approach this with both courage and careful discernment.

Strategic Approach

I spent the weekend transforming my scattered notes into something structured. Rather than a complaint about Rex, this would be a data-driven analysis of team dynamics.

"Observable patterns," I muttered, creating a new document. "Not character judgments."

I included timestamps, direct quotes, and specific instances where ideas had been redirected. The effect became startlingly clear when visualised on a graph – innovation metrics had dropped 27% in areas where Rex took control, despite outputs increasing.

Anonymous quotes from team members revealed the pattern:

"I've stopped sharing ideas in meetings."

"Why bother when someone else will take credit?"

I prepared two versions – one with Rex's name, one without. The patterns stood regardless of who was named.

For three nights, I practiced in front of my bathroom mirror, focusing on maintaining a calm, analytical tone.

"This isn't personal," I reminded myself. "It's about protecting our creative culture."

By Thursday morning, my presentation was ready – twelve slides of undeniable evidence s...