I’d been stuck on the same project for weeks, the kind that looks simple on a timeline but turns ugly the moment you touch it. No drama, no fireworks. Just bad documentation, shifting requirements, and a client system that behaved like it had a personal grudge against anyone who tried to use it.

I work remotely, which already puts a target on my back with a certain type of boss. The kind who hears “remote” and imagines pajamas, naps, and Netflix playing just out of frame. They don’t picture the long hours, the coffee going cold, or the mental gymnastics required to untangle someone else’s broken system.

The truth was, I was working harder than I ever had in an office. But effort you can’t physically see apparently doesn’t count.

My boss, Darin, had been hovering for days. Slack messages early in the morning. Follow-ups that came minutes after I replied. Calendar invites labeled “quick sync” that somehow always felt like interrogations.

The project itself was a mess. The client had changed their specs twice. Their API didn’t behave like the documentation promised. Error messages were vague and unhelpful, like they were mocking me. I was doing the responsible thing, logging everything and building workarounds so we wouldn’t get blamed later.

Progress was steady, but not fast. And slow progress makes impatient managers nervous.

One Monday morning, Darin called me without warning.

“So,” he said, skipping any form of greeting, “this task was estimated at two weeks.”

“Yes,” I replied. “Based on the original requirements.”

“And now we’re past that.”

“Because the requirements changed and their authentication endpoint is broken,” I said. “I sent an update Friday with details.”

He sighed, the kind of sigh people use when they don’t like facts. “I’m worried you might be losing focus.”

That sentence landed wrong. It always does.

“I’m focused,” I said calmly. “I’m just dealing with a broken system.”

“Well,” he continued, “to make sure you don’t get lazy, I want you to install an app so I can see your screen during work hours.”

I honestly thought he was joking. I even let out a small laugh.

He didn’t laugh back.

“I’m not installing surveillance software on my personal computer,” I said. “If you don’t trust remote workers, don’t hire remote workers.”

His tone shifted immediately. Defensive. Sharp. “It’s not surveillance. It’s productivity tracking.”

That’s just surveillance with better marketing.

“It records screens,” I said. “That’s surveillance.”

“It’s standard,” he insisted. “Everyone’s doing it.”

Managers love that phrase. It sounds reassuring until you realize it usually means “I hope you don’t ask questions.”

“I’m uncomfortable with that,” I said. “If it’s required, please send me the written policy and confirm whether the company will provide a work device.”

There was a pause. Then he said, “Just install it. We’ll talk about devices later.”

Pressure, dressed up as cooperation.

I ended the call feeling sick. Not because I was doing anything wrong, but because I was being treated like I was.

Before doing anything, I messaged Maribel, a senior developer who had seen every bad management trend come and go.

“He wants me to install a screen monitoring app,” I wrote. “Is this actually allowed?”

Her response came quickly. “No. He tried that last year. HR shut it down.”

That told me everything I needed to know.

Still, outright refusal would have made my life miserable. Darin was the kind of person who didn’t forget being challenged. So I made a calculated choice.

I created a separate user profile on my computer. Completely clean. No personal files. No private accounts. Just work tools.

Then I installed the app.

It felt wrong, but contained. If he wanted to watch me type code and stare at error logs, fine. He wasn’t getting anything else.

The next morning, the monitoring started. A little notification popped up whenever he was “viewing.” It was distracting in a way that made thinking harder. Knowing someone was watching changed how every minute felt.

At one point, he messaged me asking why I’d been on a blank browser tab for thirty seconds. Another time, he questioned a four-minute pause.

Four minutes.

I started documenting everything. Dates. Times. Messages. Comments. Not because I planned to use them, but because experience had taught me that control always escalates.

Ironically, that same afternoon, the project finally moved forward. The client admitted their system was misconfigured. They fixed it. My integration worked immediately.

I ran the tests. All green.

I pushed the final code. Clean. Well-documented. Solid.

Darin messaged me. “See what accountability does?”

That sentence hit harder than I expected. He wasn’t just watching me. He was rewriting the story in his head, giving the monitoring credit for work I’d been doing all along.

I didn’t reply.

The next morning, something unexpected happened.

I received an automated security email stating that the monitoring tool had been registered under Darin’s personal account, not the company’s. That meant the data belonged to him. Screenshots. Activity logs. Everything.

That crossed a line.

I didn’t confront him. I didn’t accuse him. I sent a calm email to IT security asking whether the tool was approved.

It wasn’t.

Within hours, IT instructed me to uninstall it immediately. HR joined the thread. Screenshots were requested. Emails were reviewed.

Suddenly, Darin went quiet.

In the HR meeting, he tried to frame it as “supporting productivity.” HR wasn’t impressed. Installing unapproved monitoring software on a personal device violated policy. Registering it under his own account made it worse.

There was no shouting. No dramatic firing. Just consequences.

I was reassigned to report through Maribel. A company-wide update went out clarifying that screen monitoring on personal devices was prohibited.

A month later, Darin no longer managed engineers. He’d been moved into a role with no direct reports.

Control without people to control doesn’t last long.

The real reward came quietly. Messages from coworkers thanking me. Policies being clarified. Boundaries reinforced.

And my work? Still strong. Still consistent. Still mine.

Here’s the lesson I took from it.

If someone doesn’t trust you, surveillance won’t fix that. It only reveals their fear.

Real work requires trust, space, and respect. Anyone who needs to watch a screen instead of measuring results doesn’t understand productivity at all.

If this story sounds familiar, you’re not alone. Share it. Like it. Let someone else know that pushing back doesn’t make you difficult. Sometimes, it makes things better for everyone.