From Acting-Lead Scope Creep to Written Terms: A Clarity Case
The 8:12 p.m. Notes Draft That Never Gets Sent
If you’ve drafted the negotiation Slack message in your Notes app five times, made it extra polite, then deleted it because you don’t want to sound “difficult,” you’re not alone (hello, compensation alignment anxiety).
Jordan showed up on my screen from a Toronto condo that still looked like it was in “post-work mode”—work clothes, hair pushed back, laptop open like a second mouth that wouldn’t stop asking for more. Slack notifications flickered in the corner. Their laptop fan had that exhausted little whine you only hear after a day of Zoom plus a dozen browser tabs. They clicked into a Note titled Title/Pay convo, scrolled, and I watched them do the thing I’ve seen a hundred times: type three lines, then rewrite them into something so polite it barely asked anything.
“I’m basically the lead,” they said, then gave me a half-laugh that sounded like the edge of a paper cut. “Just without the title. And definitely without the pay.”
I asked what their body did when they imagined bringing it up.
Jordan’s fingers went to their jaw without thinking. “Tight. Like I’m clenching through the whole day. And the stomach-drop thing. Like… if I ask, something gets revoked. Like I don’t belong here anymore.”
That was the core contradiction, right there in one breath: they wanted formal recognition and compensation for acting-lead work, but their nervous system heard backlash—entitled, difficult, replaceable—as if asking for fair terms was the same as risking the whole opportunity.
Their anxiety didn’t look like panic. It looked like professionalism turned up too high: contingency planning, script rehearsals, collecting “proof” in private folders, and waiting for the mythical calm week that never arrives in a growth-stage tech calendar.
I let the silence sit for a beat, the way you let a camera linger on a character’s face in a film so the audience can actually feel what’s happening underneath the dialogue.
“Okay,” I said gently. “We’re not here to make you magically fearless. We’re here to make you clear. Let’s try to draw a map through this fog—something practical you can use for a title and pay conversation without over-apologizing.”
Choosing the Compass: Celtic Cross · Context Edition
I started the way I always do: not with incense or theatrics, but with a reset. “Give me one slow inhale,” I told Jordan, “and on the exhale, think of the exact sentence you keep deleting.”
While they breathed, I shuffled slowly—more like setting a table than casting a spell. That’s one of the most grounded ways to explain how tarot works in a modern context: it’s a structured mirror. It externalizes the mess in your head into a layout you can actually look at, question, and reframe.
“For this,” I said, “I want a spread that shows the whole chain: what’s happening day-to-day, what’s blocking you, what fear keeps it unspoken, and what a real next step looks like.”
Today, we used the Celtic Cross · Context Edition. I like it for negotiation questions because it behaves like a good project plan: it reveals the current workload, the constraint, the hidden driver, and then it forces us to translate values into actions and documentation.
For you reading along, here’s why this spread fits a career crossroads like “I’m acting lead—how do I negotiate title and pay?”: the cross in the center diagnoses the immediate problem (scope creep + imbalance), and the staff on the right shows how the self (your stance), the environment (the system), and your fears (the stories you can’t verify) shape what you do next. In this version, the final card isn’t a fixed prediction—it’s integration and actionable advice.
I also previewed the three anchor points we’d watch:
—The challenge card would show where scope and compensation are currently uneven.
—The guiding principle would give us the cleanest frame for the conversation.
—And the integration card would tell us how to make the negotiation tangible—something that can live in writing, not just vibes.
Reading the Map: From Scope Creep to Something You Can Name
Position 1 — Day-to-Day Reality: Ten of Wands (upright)
“Now flipped over,” I said, “is the card representing what is happening day-to-day: the concrete acting-lead workload and how it’s being carried.”
Ten of Wands, upright.
I didn’t need to dramatize it. The image does it for us: someone bent forward under a bundle so big it blocks their view. In modern life, it’s that week where your Google Calendar looks like Tetris, and even when meetings end, the responsibility doesn’t. It’s running standups, doing stakeholder updates, unblocking other people, and then still feeling like the decisions are glued to your hands after 6 p.m.
Upright, this is excess—not lack. You’re not underperforming. You’re over-carrying. And here’s the specific negotiation trap: being competent makes scope creep sticky. People don’t assign you lead-level work because they’re trying to exploit you in a cartoon-villain way. They assign it because it works. And when it works, the system stops feeling urgency to formalize it.
Jordan gave me a sharp little smile, almost impressed—and then it turned bitter. “That’s… painfully accurate. Like, it’s rude.”
“I know,” I said. “And it’s also useful. Because it means you’re not negotiating a hypothetical. You’re negotiating a reality you’ve already been living.”
Position 2 — The Main Obstacle: Six of Pentacles (reversed)
“Now flipped over,” I said, “is the card representing the main obstacle: where the exchange (scope vs compensation/title) is currently uneven or unclear.”
Six of Pentacles, reversed.
This is the accounting card—scales, giving, receiving—except reversed, the math doesn’t close. The cleanest modern translation I can give is the one from my own metaphor bank: unpaid premium features. You’re shipping the lead version of you on the free plan.
Here’s the inner monologue contrast I hear in this card: You’re acting like it’s a favor you owe, not a role they need.
And in a Toronto tech scene, it looks like: Slack pings that say “Can you just own this deliverable?” Jira tickets that quietly default to your name. Meeting invites multiplying. A manager who’s genuinely friendly—but who says “we’ll revisit later” because nothing is forcing a decision today.
I looked at Jordan. “It’s not a vibe. It’s a scope change.”
They did exactly what this card tends to pull from people when it lands: a slow exhale, a grim little nod. “Yeah,” they said, voice lower. “That’s the thing.”
Reversed, this is a blockage of reciprocity. It keeps you negotiating from gratitude instead of from terms. And the shadow expression is real: the more you quietly accept an uneven exchange, the more resentment builds—because some part of you is keeping score even when you pretend you’re not.
Position 3 — The Root Driver: Eight of Swords (upright)
“Now flipped over,” I said, “is the card representing the root driver: the belief or fear that keeps the negotiation unspoken and the boundary undefined.”
Eight of Swords, upright.
Blindfold. Loose bindings. A ring of swords that looks like a cage… until you notice it’s not locked.
This is deficiency of perceived permission. Your mind is treating the conversation as dangerous, so your coping strategy becomes silence and overwork. It’s the belief, “I have to be undeniably good before I’m allowed to ask.”
And it’s sneaky. It sounds like being strategic. But it behaves like a UX dark pattern in your own brain: friction buttons everywhere right before you hit “Confirm.”
Jordan swallowed. Their gaze flicked away from the screen, like they were watching a memory replay on the wall behind me. “I keep assuming there’s some rule,” they admitted. “Like you can’t talk about comp until review season. But no one has actually said that.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Eight of Swords is often ‘policy-by-anxiety.’ It feels official, but it’s mostly habit.”
The smallest unbinding move isn’t a perfect script. It’s a container: one calendar invite titled Role & compensation alignment. One rope cut.
Position 4 — Recent Pattern: Three of Pentacles (upright)
“Now flipped over,” I said, “is the card representing the recent pattern that led here: how your demonstrated contribution evolved into informal leadership expectations.”
Three of Pentacles, upright.
This is the “recognized craft” card. A cathedral, a plan, people literally looking at your work and saying, “Yes. This holds.”
In Jordan’s life, it’s being the person who translates chaos into a plan other people can execute. It’s not just hard work; it’s visible coordination. It’s quality. It’s trust.
Upright, this card is balance in competence—but it also reveals the structural lag: the team has informally upgraded your role based on results, without updating the formal system (title, pay, decision rights). You were promoted socially before you were promoted administratively.
Jordan’s face softened—pride and frustration in the same expression. “That’s… yeah,” they said. “They do rely on me.”
“Good,” I said. “Because that’s not ego. That’s evidence.”
When Justice Put “Terms, Not Vibes” on the Table
Position 5 — Guiding Principle: Justice (upright)
When I turned the next card, the room felt quieter—not mystical, just that particular quiet you get when something finally names the real issue. Even through a video call, I saw Jordan sit a fraction straighter, like their spine recognized the shape of the truth before their mind did.
“Now flipped over,” I said, “is the card representing your guiding principle: the fairest, clearest frame for the conversation about title and pay.”
Justice, upright.
This card is the antidote. Sword and scales. Not aggression—precision. It’s the difference between asking for approval and asking for alignment.
Justice says: name scope, name level, name compensation or timeline, and document. It’s not about being “nice about it.” It’s about making the exchange legible.
And this is where I bring in my signature lens—something I’ve leaned on in my art practice for years when a canvas feels like chaos: the Mondrian Grid Method. Mondrian didn’t solve complexity by adding more paint. He solved it by deconstructing the field into clean squares so every color had a defined boundary.
“Jordan,” I said, “Justice is your Mondrian moment. Four boxes. No essays. No vibes.”
Box 1: What you’re owning (acting-lead scope).
Box 2: What level that maps to (title / role).
Box 3: What terms match it (pay or a timeline with criteria).
Box 4: What gets written down (email recap, doc, or both).
Jordan’s mouth tightened, then they blurted, “But if I do that… I’m the one making it real.”
There it was—an unexpected flash of resistance, almost anger. Not at me. At the idea that clarity requires agency. “Like,” they continued, voice sharper, “doesn’t that mean I should’ve done it earlier? That I’ve been… wrong?”
I kept my tone steady. “It means you adapted fast in a messy system. That’s not wrong. It’s survival. Justice isn’t here to shame you—it’s here to update the terms so your future self isn’t paying for your past silence.”
In my head, I flashed to a cinematic archetype I use a lot with negotiation: the boardroom scene where someone finally stops begging to be liked and starts speaking in the language of the room. Not cold—clear. It’s the moment that turns, ‘Please appreciate me,’ into, ‘Here’s what this is worth.’
Setup: I could feel Jordan sitting in that familiar loop: the moment after you run the standup, solve three blockers, and send the stakeholder update—then you open Notes to draft “the message,” rewrite it softer, and tell yourself you’ll ask when things calm down.
Delivery:
Stop hoping hard work will magically balance the scales; start using Justice’s sword and scales to name the terms and make the agreement explicit.
I let it hang. No extra commentary. Just space.
Reinforcement: Jordan’s reaction came in layers—the way real insight does. First, a physiological freeze: their breath caught, and their hand stopped mid-air near their jaw. Then the cognition hit: their eyes unfocused for a second, like they were watching a montage of all the deleted drafts, all the “after this sprint” promises. Finally, the emotional release—quiet, not theatrical. Their shoulders dropped by a centimeter. Their lips parted on a shaky exhale, almost a laugh, but softer. “Oh,” they said. “I’ve been… waiting for fairness to happen to me.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Fairness doesn’t arrive because you were nice about it. Fairness arrives when you name the scope shift, ask for matching terms, and put the agreement in writing.”
I leaned closer to my camera, like I could hand them steadiness through the screen. “Right now—literally in the next ten minutes—open your calendar and create a 20–25 minute meeting titled ‘Role & compensation alignment’. In the invite description, paste two bullets: (1) ‘Current acting-lead scope (3 bullets)’ and (2) ‘Decision I’m asking for + timeline.’ If your chest or jaw spikes, do a 20-second reset—feet on the floor, one slow inhale and exhale. Then you’re allowed to hit Save without sending yet. Container first. Wording second.”
Then I asked the question that turns insight into memory: “Now, with this lens—terms, not vibes—think back to last week. Was there a moment when this would’ve changed how you felt in your body?”
Jordan didn’t answer immediately. Their eyes got glossy, not from sadness exactly—more like relief mixed with a new responsibility. “Thursday,” they said finally. “When someone asked me to make the call, and I said yes like it was automatic. I felt the stomach drop, and I didn’t connect it to money. I just… worked harder.”
“That’s the step,” I said. “Not from fear to perfect confidence. From pressure-and-resentment to grounded self-respect. From ‘prove it indefinitely’ to ‘align it while I’m stepping up.’”
The Wind Picks Up: Speed With Structure
Position 6 — Immediate Momentum: Knight of Swords (upright)
“Now flipped over,” I said, “is the card representing immediate next momentum: the communication style and timing that can move things forward soon.”
Knight of Swords, upright.
This card is a cursor hovering over “Send.” It’s that wind-tunnel feeling in your body—the second before you do the direct thing—and then the relief afterward when the world doesn’t end and you realize you’ve been carrying the dread longer than the action takes.
Upright, this is balance when it’s structured: direct, concise, not reckless. The risk with this energy is blurting. The gift is momentum.
I pulled in another of my tools here, one I borrowed from jazz more than tarot: Jazz Improvisation. Louis Armstrong didn’t improvise by panicking. He improvised by knowing the chord changes. “Knight of Swords is improvisation with a chart,” I told Jordan. “Two sentences. One request. One timeline.”
I offered them a script they could almost copy/paste:
“My scope has shifted into acting-lead responsibilities. I’d like to align on title and compensation—or a written timeline with criteria—by [date].”
Jordan nodded, but their foot bounced under the desk. Nervous courage. The good kind.
Position 7 — Self Stance: Queen of Swords (upright)
“Now flipped over,” I said, “is the card representing your best internal stance: the self-leadership skill to embody during the negotiation.”
Queen of Swords, upright.
This is the part of you that can be kind and specific. Not icy. Not apologetic. Just clear.
Upright, this is balance of boundaries: you can say the truth without punishing anyone with it. You can ask without shrinking.
Jordan’s voice got quieter. “I’m scared if I’m direct, I’ll sound… harsh.”
“You can be kind and still be specific,” I said. “That’s Queen of Swords. And here’s the test: what would you say if you were advocating for a teammate in the exact same situation?”
They blinked, like they’d never offered themselves that kind of representation. “I’d tell them it’s overdue,” they said.
“Good,” I replied. “Now be that advocate for you.”
Position 8 — Environment/System: The Emperor (upright)
“Now flipped over,” I said, “is the card representing the system around you: the power structure, decision-makers, and what the workplace responds to.”
The Emperor, upright.
This card is the org chart, the budget cycle, the leveling guidelines, the gatekeepers. The Emperor isn’t mean; it’s structured. It responds to clarity and proposals more than to hints.
Upright, this is balance of authority when you speak its language: scope, level, band, approvals, timeline. It also answers a painful question Jordan had been carrying like a pebble in their shoe: “Why doesn’t my manager just make it official?”
Because the system moves on what can be justified and documented. The Emperor doesn’t measure what’s quietly endured. It measures what’s written down and approved.
“So this isn’t only personal,” Jordan said slowly. “It’s… process.”
“Exactly,” I said. “And process can be worked with.”
Position 9 — Hopes/Fears: The Moon (upright)
“Now flipped over,” I said, “is the card representing what you’re afraid to name (and secretly hope for): the ambiguity stories that shape your courage.”
The Moon, upright.
This is the late-night Slack reread where neutral punctuation becomes a whole storyline. It’s doomscrolling workplace rumor energy (even if you never post) and then applying it to your team as if it’s confirmed.
Upright, this is excess of projection: your mind fills in gaps with worst-case narratives because uncertainty feels intolerable.
I gave Jordan a split-screen, because Moon energy needs headlights:
Facts (left side): Your manager said, “Let’s revisit at review time.” Neutral tone. No threat.
Stories (right side at 1:12 a.m.): “They think I’m greedy.” “They regret trusting me.” “If I ask again, I’m difficult.”
Jordan winced—softly, like recognition rather than collapse. “I do that,” they said. “I replay tone.”
“Totally normal,” I replied, “and not automatically true.”
Then I offered one clarifying question that is socially normal in corporate life—Moon antidote language: “What would need to be true for this to be aligned—title, compensation, or a timeline with criteria?”
One question. Not a debate. Headlights.
Position 10 — Integration/Next Step: Ace of Pentacles (upright)
“Now flipped over,” I said, “is the card representing integration and best next step: how to make the negotiation concrete, documentable, and actionable without predicting outcomes.”
Ace of Pentacles, upright.
This card doesn’t promise an instant raise. It promises something better than wishful thinking: a landing object. A proposal. A range. A date. A follow-up email. The garden gate in the image is a doorway, not a guarantee.
Upright, this is balance of practicality. It’s the moment you stop treating recognition like a feeling and start treating it like an agreement.
I watched Jordan’s shoulders lower again, like their body understood the relief of specificity. “So the outcome isn’t ‘they say yes’,” they said, “it’s ‘I make it real enough that there’s an actual answer.’”
“Exactly,” I said. “Put it in writing—so your future self doesn’t have to argue with your past silence.”
From Insight to Action: The One-Page “Justice Sheet”
Here’s the story the spread told—cleanly, like a film edit that finally reveals the plot:
You’ve been carrying an expanding acting-lead workload (Ten of Wands) inside an uneven exchange where scope moved but title/pay didn’t (Six of Pentacles reversed). The root isn’t lack of competence; it’s perceived constraint—treating negotiation like danger (Eight of Swords)—even though your work has already been visible and relied upon (Three of Pentacles). Justice crowns the whole thing with the right frame: terms, not vibes. Then the Knight and Queen of Swords show how you speak: direct, kind, specific. The Emperor reminds you this is a system conversation. The Moon shows the fog stories that spike your stomach-drop. And the Ace of Pentacles lands it in something tangible: a written alignment artifact and a follow-up email.
The cognitive blind spot I want you to hear gently—but clearly—is this: you’ve been using “being reasonable” as a way to avoid making a clear request. Reasonable isn’t the same as vague. And vagueness is what lets the imbalance persist.
The transformation direction is exactly what Justice asked of you: move from prove it indefinitely and hope they reward it to define the scope, title, and compensation terms while you’re stepping up—and put it in writing.
To make this actionable (not overwhelming), I gave Jordan a micro-plan built from the cards—and I’m giving it to you in the same practical format.
- Build your “Acting Lead Scope Snapshot” (6 lines)Open a doc and write 3 bullets for what you’re currently owning (meetings you run, decisions you make, people you unblock) + 3 bullets for outcomes/impact (deliverables shipped, timelines protected, metrics improved). Bring this to your next 1:1.Keep it Mondrian-simple: no paragraphs. Receipts aren’t a personality. They’re a tool.
- Create the container: a calendar invite with a normal subject lineIn the next 10 minutes, draft (or schedule) a 20–25 minute slot titled “Quick alignment on acting-lead scope + leveling” or add a standing 10-minute agenda item to your next 1:1 titled “Role/title alignment.” Paste your Snapshot into the agenda ahead of time.If you feel the tight chest/jaw spike, do the 20-second reset (feet on floor, one slow inhale/exhale). You’re allowed to hit “Save” without sending yet—container first.
- Use “Oscars Speech Training”: a 2-minute, one-ask pitchPractice once out loud: “My scope has shifted to acting lead. I’d like to align on title and compensation—or a written timeline with criteria—by [date]. What would you need from me to make that decision?” Then stop talking and let silence work.One take only. Don’t rehearse yourself into avoidance. Aim for clear enough, not perfect.
If you want a bonus Ace-of-Pentacles move: draft the follow-up email template before the meeting, so after the call you’re editing—not inventing. That one habit turns “we’ll revisit later” into a date, criteria, and accountability.
A Week Later: Ownership, Not Certainty
Six days after our session, Jordan sent me a message that was short enough to be brave: “I did it. I put ‘Role & compensation alignment’ on the calendar. My hands were shaking, but I sent it anyway.”
They told me something else too: the meeting didn’t end in a movie-style victory speech. Their manager didn’t instantly produce a new title and pay band on the spot. But the conversation shifted from vibes to structure. They got a concrete next step, a timeline, and a list of what “yes” required—written down. No more arguing with ghosts.
And here was the bittersweet proof—small, real, not perfect: Jordan said they slept through the night for the first time in weeks. In the morning, their first thought was still, “What if I did it wrong?”—but this time they exhaled, made coffee, and opened the recap email draft anyway.
That’s the journey to clarity I trust most: not a dramatic transformation, but a quiet return of self-respect. You’re still in the system, but you’re no longer disappearing inside it.
When you’re already carrying lead-level weight, the hardest part isn’t doing the work—it’s feeling your stomach drop at the thought of asking for fair terms, like belonging could be revoked the moment you name what you need.
If you treated this less like a confession and more like routine alignment, what’s the smallest, most specific sentence you’d be willing to put in writing this week?
