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Forbes
17-06-2025
- Business
- Forbes
The 'Ugly Duckling' Scenario Of New Hires: A Tale Of Misalignment
Naira Velumyan, Ph.D., Communication/Relationship Coach, Etiquette Expert, Founder of the Academy of Social Competency. In today's performance-driven world, people change workplaces, roles and even industries for a variety of reasons, and this transition is rarely as smooth as we would wish. A survey by Monster showed that 54% of employees surveyed had left a job within the first six months, with burnout and a mismatch between the role and what was described in the interview being the biggest reasons for these exits. From an organizational perspective, the consequences are significant, as employers face financial losses not only from employee replacement but also from prolonged low-productivity periods of adaptation. Gallup estimates that each employee departure costs the company roughly one-half to twice their annual salary. Given these staggering numbers, it's no surprise that both employers and employees struggle during this vulnerable "new hire" stage, meaning that both sides need to address the problem. I think the process of a new hire's journey has insightful parallels with the classic tale of "The Ugly Duckling." Just like the ugly duckling, a new hire in the initial integration phase may feel out of place, anxious and uncertain about belonging. They may also be perceived by co-workers and superiors as hesitant, withdrawn or underperforming. Like the ugly duckling, new employees often internalize the stressful discomforts caused by real or imaginary signs of mistrust or rejection. You need to remember that discomfort is normal in new ecosystems, including being unfamiliar with new standards, experiencing complex emotional turbulences and trying different behavioral strategies to cope. Just because you feel out of place doesn't mean you lack value or capability. Therefore, rather than trying to prove yourself to anyone, invest your energy in observation, reflection and real growth. Focus on learning and evolving, so that you can rise above any perceived negative opinions, showing your true worth. The turning point in the duckling's journey was not convincing the barnyard creatures that it belonged—it was finding its fellow swans. In the new workplace, don't exhaust yourself to win over everyone. Instead, build relationships with those who are supportive and value-aligned. Seek out those quiet allies who will help anchor your confidence while the rest catch up. Don't tie your self-worth to immediate performance. It is widely recognized that new employees don't function at full productivity—one estimate is that they work at about 25% productivity in their first month, increase to 75% by weeks nine through 12 and reach full productivity only after the 12-week mark. Take your time to grow confidently! Stop comparing yourself to others by irrelevant measures, as it will only erode your self-confidence. Reflect on your own progress and wins, no matter how big or small. Being motivated to grow is always beneficial, especially for your own development. Fitting in requires conformity, but belonging should not conflict with individuality. Your goal isn't to be like everyone else, but to contribute your unique strengths to the team. Belonging begins with self-acceptance and grows through authentic contribution. High-performing teams are built not on uniformity but on complementary differences. Feeling like a fraud in a new role is common, even for advanced professionals. As a new employee, you may experience this not because of a lack of competence but because you've seen no evidence of competence yet. This feeling can be fueled by your expectation that you must perform in your new role or responsibilities perfectly; however, the process of adaptation is not only about effort but also time. The fable of the "ugly duckling" is about being judged by appearance, not potential. Employers must recognize that early awkwardness or quietness isn't a lack of ability—rather, it may be part of psychological adaptation to a new environment, a natural and time-limited process. Expecting the new hire to perform by the company's standards from the very start is like expecting a baby swan to act according to the barnyard rules of which they are not yet aware. Onboarding requires a combination of mentoring, gradual exposure to responsibilities and reasonable time for integration while building psychological safety. The "duckling" didn't fit in at the barnyard, but it had something rare to offer. Many companies prioritize conformity over innovation, unintentionally excluding many who could bring meaningful evolution. Immediate conformity may not reflect the duckling's true value and alignment. Too often, new hires are left in social isolation, which can make even promising individuals feel unappreciated or out of place. Integration isn't just logistical, but also emotional and relational. Therefore, ensure structured peer introductions, assign onboarding buddies and establish rituals of integration to make new hires feel comfortable. The workplace culture can help with your new hire's professional integration, but can also erode it. While feedback, openness to questions and acknowledgment of effort help to adapt, a dismissive environment can instill self-doubt before the employee even has a chance to perform. So, encourage instead of criticizing. The "ugly duckling" phase is not a failure; it is an interactive journey of discovery, adaptation and recalibration. When employees and employers recognize the psychological complexity of this phase and allow space for growth without judgment, both sides will co-create a workplace where potential becomes performance and difference becomes strength! Forbes Coaches Council is an invitation-only community for leading business and career coaches. Do I qualify?
CNA
31-05-2025
- Business
- CNA
Somebody that I used to know: On the weird grief of colleague departures
This question has become part of my awkward welcome ritual for new hires: 'So ... are you a coffee person?' Day one usually begins at the cafe downstairs with a quick hello, a commemorative libation (coffee or otherwise), then a climb up the stairs to commence our journey as co-workers. Over the past decade of running my company, I've continued to personally onboard new workers. It's not that I can't trust someone else to do it. I just really enjoy it. I like showing them our 'designated crying area' (our pantry space) and explaining the curious phenomenon of the office bidet geyser. I like going through our culture deck, throwing in a few jokes to break the ice and seeing them decide how heartily they should laugh. It's orientation, yes, but also something more – a quiet hope that if you make them feel welcome and you remember their coffee order, they might stay a little longer. Then they leave. Sometimes after three years, sometimes three months. Sometimes on a good note, sometimes a strained one. And in that abrupt silence that follows, between offboarding checklists and looking at handover documents, I find myself wondering if any of these efforts were worth it. WON'T YOU STAY WITH ME? About a decade ago, the first person that I hired when I started the company decided to make a jump to a much bigger, more prestigious agency. It was a competitor but it paid her better and had a much more conducive structure for her career development. It made sense for her. We parted on good terms, but it was hard to maintain the same friendship once we no longer shared the day-to-day routines. Even seeing her career milestones pop up on social media triggered a small wave of disappointment – not at her, but at myself. It was insecurity and a bit of resentment all wrapped up in a forced double-tap of the 'like' button. We didn't speak for a long time. Only after a good five years had passed could we both approach the situation with some perspective and humour. Thankfully, we're now friendly again. This isn't a story about attrition rates or talent migration. It's about the emotional tax of investing in people who eventually walk away. No one tells you, when you first become a manager, that the job requires a strange kind of short-term memory. You pour time into someone, build a rhythm, start speaking in shared references and inside jokes – and then, poof, they're gone. Off to bigger things and better pay. The relationship seems to end abruptly there, apart from the occasional LinkedIn sightings. I know that's just the way the cookie crumbles. The workplace today is a revolving door of industry pivots, mental health breaks and career realignments. Everyone's chasing something – balance, purpose, remuneration, title and so on – and it's unlikely that staying in one place can offer everything. Still, why do I feel a small sting every time someone leaves? SOMEBODY THAT I USED TO KNOW I'll be honest. I still find it difficult not to take departures from the company personally. Not in a dramatic, weeping-in-the-toilet way, but in those smaller moments. When a photo of a past team outing pops up on social media, in a photo album or the memories in your head. Or when you retrieve an old presentation deck and you see the names tagged in the slides. Certainly not because they're wrong to go but maybe it's because, for a brief window of time, I had imagined a future where we'd keep building something together. This emotional dilemma isn't exclusive to managers and supervisors. The departure I've taken the hardest happened when I was still a junior executive, in the infancy of my career. At the time, I was part of a desk cluster with a senior who wasn't my direct boss, but who had become a de facto mentor. Christopher was soft-spoken, serious and a little stoic, but he always humoured my terrible puns. We'd often sneak off for 'planning sessions' at the canteen that had very little to do with planning. We talked about movies, music, family – the kind of conversations that anchor you during chaotic work days. One afternoon, Christopher told me that the following week would be his last with the company. He'd found a better opportunity elsewhere. In the 2002 Hong Kong movie Infernal Affairs, there's a pivotal scene where Tony Leung, playing an undercover police officer, watches the only person who knows his true identity get killed. The camera lingers on his expression of shock and horror and this remains one of the strongest gut punches in cinematic history. On that day when Christopher told me the news, my expression would've made Tony's look mild at best. 'Oh. Congrats, Chris!' I managed to say. 'Happy for you.' Two weeks later at his cleaned-out desk, I shook his hand and said all the right things: 'Let's keep in touch. Don't be a stranger.' What I couldn't shake was the strange sense of grief and futility. What would be the point of keeping in touch if we no longer worked together? FRIENDS ARE FRIENDS … FOREVER? What is 'workplace culture'? We like to talk about it in terms of values and vision statements, but most of it comes down to the people. It is who you sit next to, the person who replies with a meme instead of a boring thumbs-up, the one who makes the 5pm slump bearable. So when they leave, it isn't just another email from the human resource department. It's a permanent glitch in your work day. Conventional business wisdom dictates that investing in people is never a waste, even when they might come and go – because people are the most valuable assets of any company. I've echoed those things. I even genuinely believe them. But there's another truth, too: that what isn't a waste can still sometimes feel like one regardless. It's only human of us to feel something, especially after we've poured hours into someone – coaching, giving feedback, having conversations over coffee and bubble tea – only to have them resign right when they finally started getting it. Maybe it is not quite bitterness but certainly, there is a sense of jadedness. The kind that makes you want to pull back with the next person, just a little. Don't get too attached. Don't ask about their weekend or their interests. Don't joke too much. Here's the catch: If you stop investing in your people earnestly and genuinely, you will slowly become the kind of manager you swore you'd never be. Transactional. Coldly efficient. Checked out. And ironically, that's exactly the kind of environment people want to leave. So I will keep trying, even when the farewell Slack message reads like a LinkedIn boilerplate. I will keep hoping that somewhere along the way, the time we spent together meant something. That, in between rushed deadlines and Monday check-ins, we managed to become more than just colleagues ticking boxes on a task list. Maybe that's the point – to make the workplace not just somewhere people pass through, but somewhere they felt seen, where they felt real connection, even if briefly. I love how Andy Bernard movingly puts it in the series finale of American sitcom The Office: "I wish there was a way to know you're in the good old days before you've actually left them." The real treasure, as they say, might just be the friends we made along the way.
