Finding Direction in Detours

When I first took the HR role at a manufacturing company with an all-male employee base, I thought, “Finally-no drama.” I had spent years in female-dominated departments where the gossip could power a small village, and the passive-aggressive emails deserved their own awards show. I figured men would be simpler. Less emotional. More direct. Oh, sweet naïve Brigitte.

Turns out, men are just as dramatic, they just come with different packaging. Instead of side-eyes and whispered hallway chats, I got locker room confessions, toolbelt tantrums, and the occasional forklift sulk. Within weeks, I wasn’t just the HR manager, I was the unofficial therapist, referee, and snack pimp.

Yes, snack pimp. Because nothing soothes a bruised ego or a welding-induced meltdown like a sleeve of Chips Ahoy or a bag of spicy chips. I started keeping a stash in the kitchen, because we all know how hard it is to work with “hangry” employees.

At first, they were super shy. Like middle schoolers at a dance, hovering near the punch bowl, avoiding eye contact, pretending they didn’t need anything. Even though I invited them all to come to my office and share the growing pains they’d endured before HR existed (aka before I showed up), they were wary. Suspicious. Like I was the new sheriff in town, and they were all one coffee break away from being fired.

Rumors flew faster than forklift gossip: I was here to set rules and ruin fun. Management had hired me because they thought the guys needed a psychologist. One even told me, “We thought you’d last two weeks, tops.” Charming.

But slowly, they started coming around. It began with casual hallway nods, then cautious knocks on my office door. They’d peek in, eyes hopeful, and ask, “Can I talk to you about something…?” And just like that, I became the workplace confessional. One guy needed help navigating a performance issue. Another just wanted to vent about his coworker’s loud chewing. One came in for a snack and stayed for a soul-searching chat about his career path.

Now, they pop in like it’s a neighborhood bodega. They ask for crackers, advice, and occasionally, life coaching. I’ve become their counselor, their snack pimp, and their unofficial HR mom. And honestly? I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Turns out, when you give people space to be heard (and feed them), they show up. Not just with complaints, but with ideas, gratitude, and the kind of trust that makes the job worth doing. So yes, I came in as the “rule lady,” but I stayed as the one who listens, laughs, and always has peanut butter crackers on hand.

But here’s the thing: I love it. I love the honesty, the weirdness, the way they trust me with their stories and their snack preferences. I’ve become part of the ecosystem – equal parts HR, counselor, and vending machine. And while I still chuckle at my old assumptions, I now know that drama doesn’t wear heels – it wears steel-toed boots and smells faintly of polybond.