Changing the World by Changing the Numbers
Working at the start-up of my dreams turned out to be a nightmare
Eight months after starting my first job, I found myself crying in one of the company’s bathroom cubicles. At 29, I had already finished a master’s in physics and a Ph.D. in engineering and was now working as a data analyst at a multinational tech company. It was all so perfect on paper. I was on my way up the corporate ladder. Yet, I was miserable. Something was missing. I wanted to feel that I made a difference in the world, that my contribution had a real impact. And here, I felt like a tiny ant, following the path others laid out for me, working for some big plan I had no influence on.
After many sleepless nights, I figured that if working at this big company didn’t feel right, I needed to go the opposite way. I needed to go small.
I found a cool little start-up that sounded like it might fit the bill. They were an online marketplace for tours and activities. Their mission was to make tourism more sustainable for local communities by giving the power back to the local tour guides instead of big travel companies. This was perfect for me because I love traveling, but I also hate its impact on the planet. So maybe this would help with the guilt.
I could feel a click with everyone I met during the interview process. We were laughing and finishing each other’s sentences. They weren’t just interested in my data science skills but also in who I was as a person — we chatted about my travel blog and my improv experience. On top of that, there were all the perks of the start-up experience: I could work remotely (pre-COVID, this was a big deal!), the team had a beer together every Friday, and there was FREE lunch. With every new piece of information, I was more excited to work with them. There was a slight downside: the pay cut. But I understood that they were a struggling start-up, and you can’t put a price on happiness.
When they offered me a contract by email, I typed “Yes!!!” and quit my job at the big tech company that same day.
This decision felt exactly right.
I came to work on the first day with a spring in my step. The start-up offices were big open spaces, with high ceilings and large windows to the outside. The walls were covered in colorful photos from the team in different world destinations. Unlike my previous male-dominated work environments, here I was surrounded by friendly and supportive women.
Those first weeks were a whirlwind of new experiences that filled my soul. Whenever anyone asked about my new job, I’d get a giant grin. I was walking on clouds.
People were coming to me for data insights and advice from day one. In a company of liberal arts majors in their mid-twenties, I was a seasoned expert at the ripe old age of 29. I brought the big data hype with me, and everyone was interested: from George, the customer support agent, to the CEO. Nobody paid attention to me in my old company, but here I was important. I was special. It felt so good to be needed. Like my talents were finally being used for something that matters.
Not everyone was so glad to work at the start-up, though. During the Friday evening beers, after the managers had left, some colleagues would rant about the low salaries, the pressure they were under, incompetent people being hired or promoted unfairly. I’ve always been partial to gossip, it’s one of the things I missed the most when I worked in male-dominated environments, so I always joined on Friday. I disagreed with their opinions, but I’d listen and nod and drink beer.
Two months after I started came the investment round. This is when a start-up goes through a ritual mating dance with a slew of investors in hopes of finding at least one who is willing to invest millions in them and their idea.
Being the main numbers person in the company, I was naturally expected to provide the data, graphs, and tables that would populate the PowerPoint presentations — the data, graphs, and tables that would show how well we were performing in the market.
One morning, I was quietly working on my laptop when the founder of the start-up barged into the room.
“Drop everything you’re doing and calculate last year’s customer attrition numbers for the investors,” he said, speeding towards my desk. “Right now!”
The founder was an imposing man with a larger-than-life personality. You could hear him talking about his many businesses several minutes before entering the room. He was boisterous, like a storm that took over the office for a few seconds and left a path of dazed employees in its wake. I’d told him before that I didn’t like being interrupted in my workflow, yet here he was, hovering behind me, waiting.
“Why do you need the attrition numbers?” I asked, keeping my voice calm even though I felt like screaming.
“Because I need them.”
At first, I thought he was joking. That’s the kind of response I’d hear at the big company, but here my opinion mattered. I wasn’t going to change my plans at the last minute, something I absolutely hate, just blindly following an order. However, after a few seconds of silence, I realized he meant it.
I felt a tingle in my fingers and toes. My body was telling me to run away from the situation. I felt like a powerless child.
I made a few more unsuccessful attempts at getting an explanation, and eventually, I caved in. After all, he was my boss, so I had to do as he said, right? So I dropped what I was doing, got the numbers, and then called the founder into the conference room to show him my results.
“These numbers don’t look good for us,” he said. “There is way too much attrition. How can we make this look better?”
I widened my eyes, my heart pounding in my chest. As an analyst, my job was to show the truth in numbers. That’s what I thought we were showing the prospective investors. On the other hand, the founder was asking me to fudge the numbers.
“Not a lot better, of course,” he added — as if that was supposed to make me feel better. “Just enough to make it believable. And if you change the numbers directly at the source, in our own database, there’s no way anyone would ever find out.”
I didn’t care about being found out. I cared about doing the right thing. And I’d always thought that the right thing was the truth. After all, the investors needed to know exactly what they were putting their money in.
I told him that this wasn’t ethical and that even if it seemed like no big deal now, it might have significant repercussions in the future. I also explained how deleting data from our database would compromise our insights and the integrity of everything we do.
“I know this is very different from academia,” he said. “But it’s how the real world works. If you want to help us, you need to stop being so fussy about the numbers.”
If you want to help us, he said. So, if I didn’t do it, I wasn’t a team player. If I didn’t do it, I’d be hurting the company. If I didn’t do it, they wouldn’t be able to change the world. Fuck. I had to do it.
So I did it.
With the founder perched over my shoulder, staring at my laptop screen like a hawk, I removed the bad customers one by one to make the attrition rate go down. I didn’t delete them from the database — that’d be sacrilege to me — but I removed them from the numbers we were showing the investors.
When he was happy with the numbers, I was released back to my desk to my other (more rewarding) work. However, it was hard to focus when I felt like I’d just been manipulated into committing fraud. I couldn’t stop thinking about the Wall Street investment scandal of 2008. Was this how it happened? A series of well-intentioned people thinking that fudging the numbers a bit here and there isn’t such a big deal? What did I get myself into?
As the weeks passed, the data requests for investors continued. They followed the same pattern: the founder barging into the office, asking for some numbers, then asking me to change them to look better. Every time I did it, it got a little easier, but another piece of me was lost. And every time I heard the founder proudly state to the team, “We are a data-driven company,” I lowered my head in shame. I felt like a terrible scientist and an even worse human being.
I started regularly crying in the bathroom and joining in the complaining during Friday evening beers.
I should have known: there’s no such thing as a free lunch.
Eight months after I joined the start-up, I went to a week-long technology conference by myself. Listening to politicians and philosophers talk about the future of tech, to CEOs explaining how their companies are making a difference, got my blood flowing again.
And then, by chance, I found myself chatting with a recruiter at a large tech company. The conversation flowed nicely — like we were old friends.
“I’ll be honest with you,” I said. “I’ve worked at a big company before, and I hated the feeling of being just another ant in the ant colony. I need to feel like I’m making a difference.”
“Our company is a little different than most tech companies,” she responded. “You get to work in small teams that develop their own product. So it feels like you’re in a start-up. At the same time, you’re supported by a training program and a community of colleagues like only a big company can offer.”
That sentence got my attention. I could have the best of both Worlds?
“And also, it pays really well,” she said with a wink.
I went back home after the event, still thinking that I wouldn’t do anything about it. But she’d planted a seed in my brain, and I couldn’t help dwelling on it. Was I still happy with my job at the start-up? Were the things I loved about it worth the hours I spent manipulating charts to make the founder happy?
The more I sat on these thoughts, the more annoyed I became about little things at work, like a colleague making a small mistake or the way someone talked to me. And I wasn’t even changing the world that much, because, well, it’s a small company, what did I expect? I was helping a few people have a nice holiday, and some locals make a buck. What was that in the grand scheme of things?
I slowly started to research the big tech company. Every new piece of information seemed to indicate a perfect fit. To the point that I thought, If I don’t try this company, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.
So I applied to them. The interview process took three grueling months, during which I’d drag myself to the office, pretending to be OK. When I finally got the call saying that I got the job, I shouted, “Yes!” The same day, I quit the start-up.
This decision felt exactly right.
