Employers love arbitration agreements. They keep disputes private and out of court.

Last year, in Muldrow v. City of St. Louis, SCOTUS rewrote what counts as an "adverse employment action" under Title VII. The old rule required something "materially" adverse—real harm. That's gone. Now, if an employee is left even a little worse off in the terms or conditions of employment, that's enough.

That's a big deal. It opens the door to challenges over everyday workplace decisions that courts used to dismiss as trivial.

But here's the nuance: the bar is lower—not nonexistent.

Enter Walsh v. HNTB Corp.

Walsh, a long-time IT employee, was placed on a performance improvement plan. She completed it. No demotion. No pay cut. She later resigned and claimed age discrimination, arguing that the PIP itself was an adverse action.

Under pre-Muldrow law, that claim was dead on arrival. Post-Muldrow? It at least gets a serious look.

The First Circuit acknowledged the new standard: any change that leaves an employee worse off in their job conditions can qualify. And importantly, it made clear that some PIPs will meet that test.

But Walsh still lost. Her PIP didn't actually change anything that mattered. No new duties. No reduced opportunities. No impact on pay, title, or advancement. The court called it what it was—"documented counseling."

That's the lesson. A PIP is no longer automatically safe. But it's not automatically actionable either. It depends on what it does.

A PIP can now be an adverse action if it:

📝 Adds worse or more burdensome responsibilities
📝 Limits promotion or transfer opportunities
📝 Impacts compensation or advancement
📝 Meaningfully alters how the job is performed

Walsh's PIP did none of these. So, the employer won.

But don't get too comfortable. Here's what employers should be doing right now:

First, draft PIPs like they'll be Exhibit A. Because they will be. Tie them to objective performance issues and avoid vague, subjective critiques.

Second, be careful about layering on consequences. The more a PIP changes how someone works—or what opportunities they have—the more it starts to look like an adverse action.

Third, stay consistent. Disparate treatment claims just got easier to plead and harder to dismiss early.

Fourth, train your managers. "It's just a PIP" is no longer a safe assumption.

Muldrow didn't take the bar away. But it dropped it. And Walsh shows how low employers now have to go to get under it.

Some cases hit harder than others. This is one of them.

A Hamilton County, Ohio, jury just tagged Total Quality Logistics with a $22.5 million verdict. The reason? It refused to let a pregnant employee work from home—despite two doctors' orders—and her baby died as a result.

Let that sink in.

Chelsea Walsh had a high-risk pregnancy. After an emergency procedure, her doctor ordered modified bed rest and remote work. Not optional. Not a suggestion. A medical directive aimed at keeping her pregnancy viable.

She did what employees are supposed to do. She asked.

Her employer said no. Not once. Repeatedly.

Even after a second doctor confirmed that working from home was necessary to prevent further complications, the company held the line. Come into the office. Or don't work at all.

Only after a third party intervened did TQL finally relent and allow remote work. But it was too late. Later that same day, Walsh suffered complications and delivered her daughter, Magnolia, at 20 weeks. The baby lived only a few hours.

A jury heard those facts and concluded that this wasn't just bad judgment, it was negligence that cost a life.

TQL says it "disagrees with the verdict" and is "evaluating legal options." Of course it does. What else was it supposed to say after a jury called them out for an indefensible decision.

Here's the part employers need to understand: this wasn’t a close call.

A pregnant employee. A documented medical condition. Two doctors saying "work from home." And a job that could have been done remotely. This is textbook reasonable accommodation territory.

Instead, TQL chose rigidity over humanity, control over common sense, and policy over people.

And now it owns a $22.5 million reminder that those choices have consequences.

If you're an employer still treating accommodation requests like inconveniences to be managed instead of obligations to be met, pay attention. Juries are. Which makes this an easy call for the latest nominee for the Worst Employer of 2026.

AI is new and shiny. Employment law is not.

Last Friday in Covent Garden, a street performer pulled me into his act.

"Where are you from?"
"America."

The boos came right on cue. Not playful. Not ironic. Real boos. Not from everyone—but from enough to feel it.

And yes, I knew they were coming. Anyone paying attention to how the world currently sees the U.S. knows. Still, hearing it live hits differently. It stings. Because I hate being cast as the villain—especially when I oppose with every fiber of my being everything that America has become since January 20, 2025.

But in that moment, none of that mattered. I wasn't me. I was "America."

That's the point.

The rest of the world isn't parsing our politics the way we do. They're not distinguishing between voters and non-voters, between MAGA and anti-MAGA. They see the country. Full stop.

The passport does the talking—and right now, it's not saying anything flattering.

To be clear, that moment wasn't my overall experience. Over six days in London, everyone we met was warm, welcoming, and eager to talk. And when the conversation turned to U.S. politics, the reaction was universal: They hate Trump. Not politely. Not abstractly. Viscerally.

But here's the uncomfortable truth: even when people separate you from the politics in conversation, the reputation still sticks at a distance. Countries are judged by what their governments do. Period.

And when a nation elects leaders who attack democratic norms, cozy up to authoritarians, alienate allies, and uproot the world order without thought or care for the global consequences, the world doesn't carve out exceptions for those who voted the other way.

They just see the country. Which means we carry it—all of us.

That's frustrating. It's unfair. It's also reality.

For a long time, Americans treated politics as a domestic sport. Something that affected us internally. Not anymore. The damage is global. And it shows up in small, uncomfortable moments—like a crowd booing when you say where you're from.

That moment wasn't about me. It couldn't have been. They didn't know me. All they knew was that I'm American—and that alone was enough, because their reaction was about what "America" currently represents.

Reputations aren't permanent. They're earned. They can be lost. And, with hard work, they can be regained. If we don't like how the world sees us right now, there's only one way to change it. We don't get to shrug it off. We don't get to pretend it's not our problem. It is our problem. And it's time we started fixing it.


To hear a full recap of our Spring Break (or Spreak, as my daughter calls it) adventure in London, tune into this week's episode of The Norah and Dad Show, available via Apple Podcasts, Spotify, YouTube, Amazon Music, Overcast, your browser, and everywhere else you get your podcasts.

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