I’ve been thinking about this story longer than I expected to.
Not because it’s shocking—sadly, it isn’t—but because it feels uncomfortably close to things I’ve seen before. Over the course of my career in labor relations and employment law, I’ve sat at conference tables, reviewed policies, advised managers, and watched how organizations respond when an employee stops being productive and starts being vulnerable.
A young woman. Smart. Capable. Employed at a successful tech company in Manhattan. Someone who, on paper, was doing everything “right.” Until she wasn’t.
According to a lawsuit now filed in New York, the pressure of her job slowly hollowed her out. Anxiety. Depression. A point where getting through the day became impossible. When that happened, she did what employees are told to do. She raised her hand. She took medical leave. She sought treatment. She trusted the system.
And for a while, the system appeared to respond.
Leave was granted. Conversations were had. Extensions were discussed. I’ve seen those emails before—carefully worded, professional, sympathetic on their face. The kind that reference policy while expressing concern. The kind that look reasonable when read aloud in a conference room.
Then the tone shifts.
Patience thins. Calendars matter more than conditions. Timelines replace judgment. The human situation becomes a “case” to be managed.
Her health insurance—while she was still in treatment—was cut off. Soon after, she lost her job.
Weeks later, she was dead.
I didn’t know her. But I’ve known versions of this story for years. Not the ending—but the path. Over and over, I’ve watched organizations move from support to separation, not out of malice, but out of habit. Policy thresholds get hit. Leave expires. Benefits end. Decisions are made that are technically defensible and procedurally clean.
And yet, devastating.
The company named in the lawsuit—MongoDB—has not commented publicly. The courts will decide what obligations were breached, if any. But legal compliance has always been the floor, not the ceiling. In labor relations, we know this. We’ve always known it.
What troubles me most is the absence of intention. No cartoon villain. No dramatic confrontation. Just a system doing exactly what it was designed to do when someone stops producing. The role is filled. The coverage ends. The file is closed.
Except for the people left behind.
We talk endlessly now about mental health in the workplace. Posters. Slack reminders. EAP links. Awareness days. But over the years, I’ve seen how quickly support evaporates when a condition lasts longer than expected, costs more than planned, or resists neat recovery timelines.
Employment in this country is a fragile bargain. Your job is your healthcare. Your healthcare is your lifeline. Lose one, and the rest can disappear almost overnight. When someone is already drowning, removing stability—even lawfully—can have irreversible consequences.
I don’t believe employers are responsible for every tragedy. Mental illness is complex. Suicide is never simple. But after years in this field, I do believe this: when an employee tells you they are not okay, and your response is driven primarily by policy expiration dates instead of human judgment, something fundamental has failed.
This case isn’t just about one company or one lawsuit. It’s about a culture of work that still confuses risk management with care. It’s about systems built for efficiency being asked—poorly—to handle fragility.
And it leaves me with the same question I’ve asked myself many times over my career:
When someone at work breaks down completely—when they are no longer useful, efficient, or easy—do our systems still recognize them as human?
If the answer is “only up to a point,” then that point deserves far more scrutiny than it gets.
The Valley Viewpoint 