Right, so picture this. I rock up to the bank every morning in East London, coffee in hand, and the open plan floor is already buzzing like a bloody beehive that forgot how to settle. The under twenty fives are everywhere, phones half out even though we have rules about that, the girls whispering in little clusters about who wore what on the weekend and the lads chucking banter across the desks like they are still in the playground. I am the one who has to keep the whole circus from collapsing into pure chaos, and honestly some days it feels like herding particularly lively kittens who have just discovered caffeine. Yet there is something weirdly brilliant about it all. Watching them compete and joke around does teach me patience in ways I never expected when I first took the supervisor role. I stay strict because structure actually helps them grow, even when they roll their eyes at first and mutter under their breath like I cannot hear them.
Take the girls for a start. They arrive looking polished, hair perfect, nails done in those soft pinks or reds that make me smile because I do the same on my days off, but the second a new target drops they turn into these quiet little rivals. One will finish her spreadsheet three minutes faster than the other and suddenly the atmosphere shifts. You can feel the competitive edge humming. I used to think it was just office politics, the usual stuff you get anywhere, but over time I realised it is more like they are testing their own edges. I call them over for a quick chat, keep my voice steady and firm, remind them that the numbers matter more than who got there first. They nod, say yes Dingo, then wander off and I catch the eye rolls in the reflection of the glass partitions. Fair enough. I rolled my eyes at plenty of supervisors when I was their age back in Basildon. Still, the structure works. By the end of the week those same girls are helping each other without me asking, swapping tips on how to clean up a messy data set. It is like watching stubborn seedlings finally decide the trellis is useful after all.
Then there are the guys. Proper energy, those ones. They joke about everything, from the dodgy coffee machine that sounds like it is dying a slow death to the way the air conditioning decides to freeze us solid every other Tuesday. One of them will lean back in his chair, spin a bit, and fire off a one liner that has the whole section laughing. I keep a straight face because that is the job, but inside I am properly amused. Secretly I notice the tall ones more than I should, the way they move with that easy confidence, but company policy is company policy and I am not about to blur any lines. Instead I channel it into keeping them focused. When the banter gets too loud I walk over, stand there for a second longer than comfortable, and ask in my calmest voice whether the monthly figures are going to finish themselves. Instant quiet. They straighten up, get back to it, and later one of them might bring me a cuppa as a silent peace offering. I accept it with a nod. Structure again. Without the firm hand the jokes would swallow the day whole and nothing would get done. With it they still have space to be themselves, just directed toward something useful.
Patience is the real teacher here. I never thought of myself as particularly patient. Growing up in Essex you learn to speak your mind quick and move on, but managing this lot has stretched that muscle in the best way. There was the week when two of the girls stopped speaking to each other over some social media nonsense that spilled into work. Proper drama. I sat them down separately, listened without jumping in, then brought them together and laid out the simple rule that personal stuff stays outside the door once the screens are on. They grumbled, of course, but by Friday they were sharing lunch again. Another time one of the lads kept missing deadlines because he was convinced multitasking on three devices at once was efficient. I took his secondary screens away for a day, forced him to focus on one task, and watched the lightbulb moment when he realised he actually finished faster. He still teases me about it, calls me the productivity police, but he has not missed a target since. These small wins stack up. They make the eye rolls worth it.
The thing that keeps me happy through it all is the growth I get to witness. These kids, and I say kids even though some of them are only a few years younger than me, arrive thinking the world owes them smooth paths. Life in the bank quickly shows them otherwise. Targets do not care about your weekend plans. Customers do not care if your train was delayed. I am strict about the basics, arrival times, accuracy, the way we speak to each other on the floor. It feels harsh in the moment, I know it does, yet the ones who stick around start carrying themselves differently. Shoulders a bit straighter. Voices a bit clearer when they present numbers in the team huddles. I see them taking quiet pride in a clean report, and that is when the sarcasm in my head softens into something warmer. Off the wall as it sounds, managing them is a bit like training for a long run. The early miles burn, you question why you bother, then suddenly the rhythm clicks and you realise you are stronger for the effort.
Of course the days are not all neat progress. Some mornings the energy is so chaotic I want to hide under my desk with a packet of crisps and pretend I am back home in my onesie. The girls will be competing over who can claim the best desk near the window, the guys will be inventing new nicknames for the printer that jams every afternoon, and I am left sorting the fallout while trying to hit my own numbers. I use humour to cut through it. A dry comment here, a raised eyebrow there. When one of them complains that the process is too rigid I ask if they would prefer we all just wing it and hope the auditors are in a good mood. That usually gets a laugh and a reluctant agreement. Sarcasm is my quiet weapon. It lands softer than a full telling off, keeps the mood light, and still delivers the point. They know I am not out to crush their spirits. I just refuse to let the spirits run the show.
Outside the bank I am a different person entirely, soft and hopeful, the kind who looks forward to Sunday roast with the family and dreams of proper connection. That contrast helps me stay balanced when the floor gets loud. I leave the stern face at the door most evenings, kick off my shoes, and remember that the young ones are just figuring themselves out the same way I once did. The competition among the girls mirrors the quiet competitive streak I keep hidden in myself. The jokes from the guys remind me not to take everything so seriously. Structure gives them a frame to grow inside, and watching that frame fill with actual confidence is the part that makes the job fun rather than draining.
There are moments when the patience nearly runs dry. Last month we had a big push on quarterly figures and half the team seemed more interested in planning their after work plans than checking the data twice. I gathered them all, kept my tone even but firm, and laid out exactly what was needed and by when. A few eye rolls, a couple of sighs, the usual. Then I added that if they delivered I would make sure the Friday finish was early enough for them to enjoy the weekend properly. The shift in energy was instant. Suddenly the keyboards were clacking with purpose. They hit the targets, I kept my word, and the following Monday the atmosphere was lighter. It is a simple exchange really. Clear expectations, consistent follow through, a bit of reward when it is earned. Off the wall as it might sound to some management books, treating them like capable humans rather than problems to solve works better than any fancy motivational poster.
I have learned that young energy is not something to crush. It is something to guide. The girls with their quiet rivalries become sharper analysts when the competition is channelled into shared goals. The guys with their endless jokes become the ones who lift the room when a tough client call has everyone tense. My role is to set the boundaries tight enough that the energy has somewhere useful to go, yet loose enough that their personalities still have room to breathe. Strict does not mean joyless. I still laugh at the good one liners. I still notice when someone has put in extra effort and make sure they know it was seen. The eye rolls come, they always will, but they come less often now that the team has seen the structure actually leads somewhere good.
Living between Basildon roots and Hackney days gives me a useful perspective on all this. Back home people say what they mean without dressing it up. At work I have had to refine that into something steadier, a calm firmness that does not need volume to be heard. The under twenty fives respond to that more than they realise. They test the edges, of course they do, that is part of being young and full of life. When the edges hold firm they settle, focus, and often surprise themselves with what they can produce. I have watched quiet ones find their voice in team meetings. I have watched the loudest jokers become the most reliable when a deadline looms. Those transformations keep the job feeling worthwhile even on the chaotic mornings.
The happy part, the bit that makes me smile on the train home, is knowing that most of them will look back on this time and realise the strictness was never personal. It was about giving them tools that last longer than any single pay packet. Structure is not the enemy of fun. It is the thing that makes the fun sustainable. Without it the competition turns bitter and the jokes turn into distractions that cost everyone. With it the whole floor moves with a kind of lively purpose that is properly satisfying to oversee. I stay patient because the alternative is chaos that helps no one. I stay strict because the growth that follows is real and visible.
Some evenings after a particularly full on day I put on my baggy hoodie, grab a cuppa, and think about how far the team has come in just a few months. The girls who used to snipe now collaborate without being asked. The guys who used to spin in their chairs for half the morning now catch themselves and get stuck in. Eye rolls still happen, but they are softer, almost affectionate. Managing young energy daily is never going to be simple or quiet, yet the mix of chaos and progress has a rhythm that suits me. It keeps me sharp, keeps me amused, and every so often delivers those small proud moments when I see them handling something difficult without needing me to step in. That is the quiet reward. Structure does its work, patience does its work, and somewhere in the middle the young ones grow into people who can carry themselves with a bit more steadiness. I would not swap it, eye rolls and all.
