On a recent trip back to England, I took a nostalgic detour through the neighborhood where I spent my childhood. The houses on Overhill Road looked smaller than I remembered — either they shrank, or I finally grew up — but the memories were vivid. Games in the street, summers that felt endless, skateboarding until sunset, and a patchwork of personalities that formed the backdrop of our little world.
One memory came flooding back more sharply than most: our neighbor, Mr. Watkins. Even as a child, I sensed something was off about him. He was the kind of person who seemed perpetually annoyed by the mere existence of other humans. Children’s laughter? An offense to his peace. A bicycle left on the sidewalk? Grounds for a formal complaint to someone — anyone. He was the human equivalent of a gray, drizzly Tuesday.
Out of curiosity — or maybe morbid fascination — I asked a longtime neighbor about him. To my amazement, and some sadness, she told me he’s still there. Still angry. Still grumbling about the world. Forty-five years later, and absolutely nothing has changed.
That revelation lingered long after my flight home. How does someone stay so deeply rooted in misery for decades? What kind of internal wiring lets someone wake up each day and consciously — or subconsciously — choose irritation, gloom and negativity all over again?
Then, like a thread pulling taut, it connected with something I’ve been reflecting on lately: supervisors and managers who seem stuck in the same emotional trench. You probably know one. Maybe you’ve worked under one. They lead through fear, sarcasm, micromanagement and an unspoken belief that happiness in the workplace is suspicious. They crush creativity, enforce rules with robotic precision, and drain the energy out of every meeting like human mood vacuums.
Of course, not all management is like this — but the pattern is familiar. It’s as though somewhere along the line, these supervisors confused leadership with control and authority with moodiness. They became the workplace version of Mr. Watkins: predictably unhappy and convinced the problem is always someone else.
Which brings me to a reflection from C.S. Lewis that rings truer with each passing year. He wrote about how a habit of constant grumbling — always complaining, always blaming others — can begin as just a mood. You might recognize it in yourself, wish it would stop. But if left unchecked, it takes over. Eventually, there’s no distinction between the person and the grumble — they merge into one, running on autopilot like a machine.
In another passage, Lewis offers a powerful metaphor: The barriers we feel trapped behind are often of our own making—and more importantly, the lock is on the inside. It’s a sobering reminder that the emotional traps we fall into — bitterness, control, chronic dissatisfaction — aren’t always imposed from the outside. Often, we hold the key ourselves. We just forget to use it.
That’s what struck me about Mr. Watkins — and what I see in certain managers. Misery, in many cases, isn’t circumstantial. It’s chosen. Rehearsed. Reinforced. And while disappointment, loss, or betrayal may have sparked it initially, over time it becomes a default setting. Eventually, the lock isn’t on the office door — it’s in the way someone thinks.
There’s something both tragic and oddly clarifying about that. Tragic, because it means someone can spend an entire lifetime being miserable when they didn’t have to be. Clarifying, because it also means the door to change is rarely locked. We’re just not always willing to reach for the handle.
In the workplace, we often underestimate the ripple effects of emotional habits. A persistently negative supervisor can stunt the growth of entire teams. But the same principle works in reverse: A leader who chooses optimism, trust and flexibility can create an environment where people actually want to show up and do their best work.
Maybe that’s the lesson from Mr. Watkins. Misery doesn’t evaporate on its own — it grows roots. But so does its opposite: gratitude, hope, patience. And the key to either? It doesn’t come with a promotion or title. It’s a daily, conscious choice about what kind of person we want to be.
After all, the lock is on the inside.
Paul Butler is a Santa Clarita resident and a client partner with Newleaf Training and Development of Valencia (newleaftd.com). For questions or comments, email Butler at [email protected].
