The Feedback Starter

Feeding culture one self-congratulatory burp at a time.

Culture in its final, edible form. Smile for the tasting committee.

At some point—no one remembers exactly when—the company acquired a sourdough starter.

There wasn’t a ribbon-cutting ceremony or anything.
One day it was just there, fermenting quietly in the corner, already somehow the most important part of the office.

They said it was “for us.”
A living culture.
A metaphor, someone in a quarterly town hall whispered, for our own growth and collaboration.

At first, we believed them.
We were told we could shape it—feed it real ingredients, add new flavors, watch it rise.
Leadership nodded solemnly over slides about “nurturing ecosystems” and “leveraging organic synergies.”

So we did what you do when you’re told something matters: we lied.

We told them it tasted amazing.

We congratulated the yeasty, half-alive blob for its “bold tanginess” and “resilient structure,”
even as it slumped further sideways in its cracked plastic tub.

We filled out feedback surveys.
We attended listening sessions.
We brainstormed over warm Costco croissants while the starter festered quietly nearby,
absorbing our good intentions and turning them into gas.

Every quarter, Leadership held a “Culture Bake-Off,”
slicing thin, goopy pieces from the starter and holding them up like rare truffles.

They chewed slowly.
Nodded thoughtfully.
And declared the culture robust. Vibrant. Thriving.

It didn’t seem to bother them that none of us were allowed to bring actual ingredients anymore.

Suggestions were deemed “disruptive to the flavor profile.”
Questions were “interesting but non-actionable.”
Concerns were carefully skimmed off the surface like mold,
leaving behind only the pure, soft ferment of sanctioned positivity.

It wasn’t feedback.
It was self-feeding.

Leadership spoon-feeding culture back to itself like a toddler with a bib adorned with buzzwords.
Ideas digesting each other.
The same bland dough rising, collapsing, and being praised for its resilience quarter after quarter.

You weren’t really allowed to ask why we needed to keep feeding it.
Why the starter deserved weekly tending
even when hiring freezes hit
or when half the marketing team got quietly absorbed into “new synergistic structures.”

The starter was sacred.
More sacred than the work.
More sacred than the people doing the work.

Sometimes you think about killing it.
About taking the tub into the alley behind the loading dock
and letting it dry out like a forgotten science fair project.

But you don’t.
You feed it anyway.

You show up to the next feedback session
with your tablespoon of safe, lightly aspirational encouragement.

You tell yourself the starter is important.
You pretend you can taste the difference.

And somewhere, deep under the sticky plastic wrap,
the starter burps approvingly.

You nod along with the others.
You raise your paper cup of lukewarm “culture blend” coffee.
And you toast another year of resilient, flavorless survival.

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