I’ve been late to work for most of my career. Nobody ever said a word.

Here’s a confession you probably don’t expect from someone who writes about policies and accountability — and who is a clinician:

I’ve been late to work for most of my career.

Not hours late. Not no-call, no-show late. Just… late. Five minutes. Ten. Walking in with my coffee while the shift was already moving. Sorting my bags as I walk through the door. Half my makeup done, with the rest saved for my lunch break.

And here’s the part that took me years to understand: I wasn’t late because I didn’t care. I care a lot. I was late because nobody ever corrected me.

The most I ever got was, “Let me know if you’re running late.” I took that to mean if I’m running 30-plus minutes late — not five or ten. That’s the problem with a vague expectation: everyone fills in their own number.

You may be wondering whether this was one job or many. Many. This has been true since I started working at sixteen. In one job interview, when they asked me to tell them about myself, I actually led with, “I’m always late — sometimes a minute, sometimes five.” And I got the job.

Things like that are approval, even when nobody means them that way.

When my kids’ school schedule changed, I started getting to work ten minutes earlier — mostly because there was nothing else to fill those ten minutes with.

A rule nobody holds isn’t a rule

Every agency I’ve worked for had a policy about being on time. It’s usually called Attendance and Punctuality, with steps for what happens when you’re tardy and all the good stuff. It was in the handbook. I signed it at orientation, right along with everything else — each and every time.

But a policy on paper and a policy in practice are two different things.

When I walked in late and nobody said anything, I learned something. Not on purpose — nobody sat me down and taught it to me. I learned it the way everyone learns the real rules at work: by watching what happens when you cross a line.

Nothing happened. So the line wasn’t really there.

What I learned over time is that some policies are “pick and choose” policies. Supervisors decide, one employee at a time, who they actually apply to.

That’s the uncomfortable truth about boundaries and policies in the workplace: people don’t learn the rules from the handbook. They learn them from what gets tolerated.

If you’re on the floor

You might be thinking, that’s a supervisor problem. Partly, yes. But not only.

Every time you let something slide with a coworker, you’re teaching something too. The coworker who’s always ten minutes late to relieve you. The one who skips the room checks and initials them anyway. The one who’s on their phone during group. When you cover, stay quiet, or roll your eyes and move on, you’re not being a good teammate. You’re helping write the real rules.

That doesn’t mean policing your coworkers. It means noticing what you’re agreeing to when you say nothing. Silence is an answer. When you say nothing, you’ve said yes.

And it means being honest with yourself, too. What are you doing right now that you only do because nobody has said anything yet?

That question stings a little. It still stings for me.

If you’re a supervisor

This one’s for you, because you’re the person whose silence counts the most.

Every time you see something and don’t address it, you’re teaching your team something. Not the thing in the handbook. The thing that actually happens.

The meeting that always starts ten minutes late teaches that punctuality doesn’t matter here. And if I come in late as a supervisor, can I still hold others accountable? Sure — but then I’m a hypocrite, and that’s the thing everyone dislikes most.

The staff member who always gets a pass teaches everyone else that the rules depend on who you are. The behavior you notice and decide isn’t worth the conversation becomes the standard — for everyone who watched you notice it.

I get why it happens. Correcting someone is uncomfortable. You don’t want to be that supervisor. You’re short-staffed and grateful they showed up at all. You like them. It’s only five minutes.

But here’s what I wish someone had understood about me: the correction wouldn’t have hurt me. The silence did. It let a habit grow for years that a single honest conversation could have stopped early.

What I actually learned wasn’t “being a little late is fine.” It was that I could choose which rules applied to me. I’m on time for my kids’ school, so they don’t pay for my lateness. I’m on time for birthday parties. I wake up in the same window every morning. So it was never really about time. It was about work — about which rules had someone holding them and which didn’t. It took me years to see that.

And I’ll be honest: I still haven’t fully changed. If I have a client first thing in the morning, I’m there on time. If I don’t, I’m usually not. Which tells you everything. When there’s a real person on the other side of the line, the line is real. When there isn’t, it isn’t.

The kindest correction is the early one

Nobody likes being corrected. But there’s a big difference between hearing it the second time something happens and hearing it two years in, when it’s become a pattern, part of your reputation, and maybe the reason you were passed over for something.

And here’s something supervisors miss: “You’re late” is not a correction. It’s stating the obvious. I already know I’m late. Saying it out loud doesn’t change anything.

A real correction names the expectation and what happens next. It sounds like:

“I noticed you’ve been coming in late. That’s not okay — you’re expected to be here on time when you’re scheduled. Moving forward, I need you here on time so we don’t have to start the disciplinary process.”

That’s it. No lecture. No drama. Just a line that’s actually there — and a clear picture of what happens if it’s crossed.

Late correction is bigger. By then, it comes with history, frustration, and sometimes paperwork. That’s when people get defensive, and the respect starts to slip: Where were you two years ago?

If you supervise people, the most respectful thing you can do is make the line real, early, and the same for everyone.

If you’re on the floor, the most professional thing you can do is not wait for someone to make you.

Because the rules that matter at work aren’t the ones you signed. They’re the ones everyone keeps.

I’m Sara Tudor, founder of Grow2Guide. I write about the parts of behavioral health work nobody explains at orientation.