I recently had a conversation with a colleague that fundamentally shifted how I view the Singaporean workforce. We were discussing the recent wave of layoffs hitting the tech and finance sectors here, and while I was expressing genuine anxiety about job security and the rising cost of living, he just laughed. He told me, “Don’t bother being scared of getting fired. To these companies, we aren’t ‘talent’ or ‘human capital.’ We are basically just domestic pets.”
At first, I thought he was being overly cynical, but the more I reflect on it, the more it stings because of how accurate it feels. In the eyes of a massive corporation, an employee is essentially a Golden Retriever. They want you to be loyal, they want you to perform tricks on command, and they expect you to be grateful for the “treats”—which in our context is just a pantry stocked with oat milk and the occasional team-building dinner at a mid-range restaurant in Tanjong Pagar.
They spend thousands on “employer branding” to make us feel like we belong to a family, but the moment the budget gets tight or the shareholders demand a higher margin, that family dynamic vanishes. If a pet runs away or becomes too expensive to maintain, the owner doesn’t stop functioning. They just feel a momentary pang of inconvenience before heading down to the metaphorical pet shop to pick out a younger, cheaper, and more energetic model.
In Singapore, we are conditioned from young to be the ultimate “good boys.” We study hard, we follow the rules, and we tie our entire identity to our job titles. We stay late in the office because we think our presence matters. But the reality is that the seat you are sitting in will be filled within forty-eight hours of your departure. Your “unique contribution” is documented in a handover folder and handed to a fresh graduate who is just happy to have a paycheck.
We need to stop romanticizing our relationship with our employers. It is a cold, transactional exchange of time for money. If you died tomorrow, your company would post your job opening before your obituary is even printed. It is high time we stopped being kiasu about corporate ladder climbing and started prioritizing our own mental health and financial independence. The “pet shop” is always open, and the owners aren’t looking for a lifelong bond—they just want someone to bark when told. We are all replaceable; the sooner we accept that, the sooner we can stop living in fear of a “master” who doesn’t actually care if we have a roof over our heads.