Chapter 10: Apple Turnover Rates

Hello, Done.

Glütën-free dreams with a dash of neuro-spice: a molten lava cake with coconut whip cream, straight from my vision of a café that celebrates both flavor and individuality.

My ultimate career aspiration involves running a cozy café—a haven of comfort, charm, and, of course, apple turnovers so good they could mend even the most broken of mornings. Baking has always been my quiet escape, a delicate dance of science and creativity that just so happens to align perfectly with my autistic tendencies. Every recipe comes with clear instructions, precise measurements, and an unwavering promise of delicious results if you follow the steps. Cold butter. Exact baking time. Predictability. For someone like me, this is not just therapeutic—it’s a sanctuary.

Reflecting on my past work experiences, I’ve realized that I’ve always thrived when given autonomy, a clear structure, and the ability to build routines that cater to my individual needs. During my time in upper-level management, I wasn’t just surviving—I was flourishing, because I could make my own accommodations without having to plead my case or explain why I needed them. Neurodivergent individuals often get overlooked for leadership roles, but the truth is, we can be extraordinary leaders. We understand what it means to listen deeply, value fairness, and create an environment where everyone feels seen. My leadership style—a blend of collaboration and respect—once earned me a nomination for Best Boss in Portland. A small but validating reminder that inclusion and empathy aren’t just good for the soul; they’re good for business.

But the workplace I find myself in now? It couldn’t be further from the warm, supportive environments I’ve fought to create in the past. Here, the turnover rate isn’t just high—it’s dizzying, as if the doors are equipped with a revolving mechanism that spits people out as quickly as it pulls them in. It’s not the kind of turnover that signals a flourishing business, like apple turnovers disappearing from a bakery shelf on a Sunday morning. No, this kind of turnover is an ominous churn—a relentless exodus that speaks to something far more insidious.

The constant departures aren’t a reflection of progress or growth; they’re the inevitable symptom of a culture steeped in dysfunction. Every exit, every resignation letter, whispers the same truth: something here is deeply broken. And yet, instead of addressing the root causes, the system seems content to patch the cracks with the next warm body, perpetuating the cycle of burnout, disillusionment, and exit. It’s not just toxic—it’s unsustainable.

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