The Office 'Therapist' Was Just a Guy Reading Self-Help Books Aloud
The fluorescent lights at Sterling Corp always hummed with a low, vibrating drone that felt like it was drilling directly into my skull. It was the perfect, grating soundtrack for the crushing boredom of our daily grind. We were all used to the corporate monotony, but then management decided to spice things up in the most misguided way possible. They hired a man named Gary to serve as our new Wellness Specialist. We didn't know what that meant, and frankly, neither did they, but they were determined to make it a pillar of our work culture. Gary’s office was located in a converted storage room near the breakroom. It was painted a shade of blue so bright it hurt your eyes—a neon, electric color that made you feel like you were trapped inside a toddler's plastic playhouse. He had installed a fake plastic fountain that made a constant, bubbling gurgle, like a fish tank filter that was struggling for its life. To complete the sensory nightmare, a cheap speaker hidden somewhere behind a stack of yoga mats played an endless loop of ocean waves. It wasn't relaxing. It sounded like a storm was brewing just outside the door, mixed with the faint, rhythmic sound of splashing water. Brenda, our HR manager, sent out a company-wide memo that looked like it had been written in a fever dream. She told us we were all required to schedule at least one session with Gary to manage our mounting work stress. She insisted that his 'holistic approach' would change our lives. We were all incredibly skeptical. Most of us had been at Sterling Corp for years and knew that if HR was pushing something, it was almost certainly a waste of time. But one day, the workload was suspiciously light, and I was bored enough to actually give it a try. I walked over to the blue door and knocked. A muffled voice told me to come in. Inside, the room felt stifling. Gary was sitting in a moth-eaten armchair that looked like it had been scavenged from a dumpster behind a thrift store. He was wearing a plain, beige sweater that had seen better days. He didn't stand up or greet me; he just gestured vaguely toward a folding metal chair. On his lap was a thick, dog-eared self-help book. Without even asking for my name or why I was there, he started reading. His voice was flat, monotone, and entirely devoid of inflection. He sounded like a computer reading a legal disclaimer. He was droning on about 'finding happiness within' and 'the inner light of the corporate soul.' I sat there, shifting uncomfortably on the cold metal seat, waiting for him to pause. When I finally cleared my throat and told him I was there for stress management, he didn't even look up. He just kept reading the same paragraph about the importance of deep breaths. I felt like I was trapped in a very boring, very bad TV show. It was surreal. He finished the page, closed the book with a heavy thud, and looked at me with a blank expression. He asked, 'How does that make you feel?' I didn't want to explain that it made me feel like walking out, so I gave him a generic, polite answer. I told him I felt a little more grounded. He nodded slowly, as if I had just revealed a profound universal truth. Then, he opened the book to a new chapter and began a story about a man who baked cookies as a way to find spiritual enlightenment. I stared at the ceiling, watching dust motes dance in the harsh light, wondering how this was supposed to be helping anyone. I counted the seconds until I could leave. When I finally walked out, I felt more stressed than when I had entered. Later that day, I caught up with Sarah from accounting in the kitchen. She looked exhausted. I asked her how her session with the 'Wellness Specialist' went, and she just started laughing. She told me she had spent twenty minutes listening to Gary drone on about how 'laziness is just a state of mind.' She said he didn't ask her a single question about her workload or her burnout. He just read from a different book, one that seemed even more poorly written than the one he read to me. Then Mark from marketing walked in, holding a lukewarm coffee. He looked bewildered. Mark said that when he walked into the blue room, Gary stared at his forehead for a full minute before announcing that Mark’s 'aura was weird.' Then, without any transition, Gary read him a long, confusing poem about an eagle flying over a mountain. We stood in the breakroom for ten minutes, comparing notes. We all realized the truth at the exact same time: Gary wasn’t a therapist, he wasn’t a coach, and he definitely wasn't a wellness professional. He was just a guy, likely a friend of someone in management, who was getting paid a salary to sit in a bright blue room and read self-help books out loud. Brenda continued to send out weekly emails, praising Gary for his 'incredible impact' on the team. She claimed that employee morale was up and that we were all feeling more 'centered.' It was pure corporate delusion. Nobody was getting any help, and the 'sessions' became a running joke. The funny thing was, the absurdity of the situation actually had an effect, just not the one management intended. The office became a much closer-knit group because we had Gary to talk about. We spent lunch hours whispering in the hallways, trading stories about the ridiculous things he had read to us that day. We bonded over the sheer weirdness of the fountain, the neon walls, and the monotone lectures on happiness. It was the most human interaction we had experienced at Sterling Corp in years. While the company spent money on this farce, we were building real connections through humor. He was just a guy reading to us, and we were his entirely confused, slightly annoyed, but ultimately united audience. In the end, he was the best distraction we ever had, even if it was for all the wrong reasons.