The Script That Killed the Servers (And Launched a Career) Featured Post

The Ambitious Engineer

It was late 2006. I was 26. I had a strong technical background—seven years as a certified admin and developer. My job was predictable: I was an Individual Contributor (IC), a Support Engineer. I was a seasoned engineer, completely confident in my technical skills.

I had recently switched jobs and joined a major global IT firm and as the newest person on the team assigned to support a massive Fortune 50 Company, I was still in the onboarding phase, learning the complex details of the infrastructure of critical global distributed systems.

December came, bringing the usual corporate challenge: holiday coverage. Usually, the new employee has to cover. But I didn't wait to be asked; as a confident engineer I volunteered. I was an IC with a leader's heart, waiting for a chance and my ambition to prove my value and show my leadership potential was too strong. I declared myself the sole coverage for the high-stakes period from December 20th to January 2nd.

A key moment of support came when a senior colleague, Orlando, gave me his personal numbers. "Hey Kenneth, if you have any problems, here's my number, you can call me. I’ll be at the beach, but I’ll bring my laptop and if you have problems I'll connect to help you." I was thankful for this safety net, but deep down, I saw this as my chance to handle the full responsibility alone. This was my test.

The Fatal Mistake

December 27th was quiet. I was alone, watching the alerts for the infrastructure. The largest system was a 10 server corporate website and everything looked green on my dashboards. I was ready, reviewing my training, confident in my access and technical ability. The silence was dangerous; it made me too relaxed.

Then, the peace ended. My pager, that old, clunky brick from 2006—yeah, that's how long ago this was— it let out a terrible beep. The screen flashed the simple, chilling message: "Corporate Website - Warning: Server 1 is down."

My training kicked in. A single server failure was normal; the other nine were fine. I checked my list: No need to call anyone. I have the scripts, I have the access. I saw this as an opportunity, not a crisis, to show competence. I logged into the server and confirmed the diagnosis: "server 1 process is hung".

The fatal mistake was next. Inside the scripts folder, I saw a file named: "restart-server-0"

My background told me, 'Zero is the first! This must be the command to restart the single bad server!' My deep drive to act quickly overrode my training to pause and check. I didn't check the script code; I didn't question the name.

I simply ran the command: restart-server-0.

The Darkest Hour and the Quick Fix

The logs instantly showed the truth. Instead of one server restarting, the screen showed a deadly sequence: "Killing server 1, killing server 2, killing server 3..."

Panic hit me hard. I hammered the keyboard: "Control Z, Control Z, Control Z"—a useless attempt to stop a running command. It was too late. I hadn't restarted one server; I had started the restart of all ten.

Seconds later, the pager screamed. The final impact notification arrived: "Corporate Website down - Critical Emergency".

I was in the middle of the worst moment. I was responsible. I had crashed the main website of a Fortune 50 company. I took a deep breath, fought the panic, and focused on recovery. I found the corresponding script, start-server-0, and ran it.

But the servers failed faster than I could bring them up. One, two, three came online, but the massive, unbalanced production load instantly killed them. I was losing the battle; my technical skills couldn't handle the traffic flood.

My solo attempt had failed. It was time to ask for help.

Coaching the Turnaround

Desperate, I called Orlando, my colleague at the beach. "Hey, I just did this. I killed all the servers and the corporate website is down."

I wanted him to panic so I wouldn't feel so alone. Instead, I heard a calm, senior leader. Orlando didn't blame me; he sounded totally calm. "Stay calm," he said. "It's nothing. The first thing you need to do is disconnect the load balancer."

At that moment, he gave me the key solution: remove the load from the servers. I followed his clear instructions, disconnected the service, and then started all 10 servers again. With no traffic hitting them, all 10 application servers came back online, healthy and green.

"Now," he told me, "reactivate the flow through the load balancer." I did it. A minute and a half later, the entire dashboard was green. The technical crisis was over.

But the hard part was not. Immediately, the phone rang. It was Jim, the Service Delivery Manager—two levels above me. He was calm, but serious. "Kenneth, I received the alert. The corporate site went down. I need to know what happened."

Owning the Fix

I didn't hesitate. I took full responsibility. "Jim, this and this happened. I was the culprit, I took down the servers."

His response was my first great leadership lesson. He didn't yell or fire me. He said: "Tranquilo. I need you to join me on a call. We have the Customer's CTO with us. We'll explain what happened, and then we'll make a plan."

Facing the CTO of a Fortune 50 company felt terrifying. But my mentor protected me. He introduced me and explained the issue: "It was definitely a human error, but Kenneth has already fixed it. Kenneth, just tell us the total downtime and the steps you took."

I explained my mistake, apologized to the CTO, and immediately offered to start the root cause analysis and remediation plan.

I felt such deep shame that, as soon as we finished the call, I called him back and offered to resign. "Jim, I'm embarrassed. I understand, it was my fault. I shouldn't have acted so quickly. If you want I'll give you my resignation."

His reply was the turning point that launched my leadership career: "Hey, to err is human. One mistake doesn't define you. Is there any way that you can make sure this doesn't happen to anyone else?"

He immediately changed my mindset from panic mode to leader mode. My mind focused on solving the problem. I quickly identified the two changes needed:

1. The bad name: The script should have been named [all] to be clear, not 0.
2. Lack of safety: A critical script must force the user to confirm with a deliberate word like [confirm].

He simply said, "Those seem like good observations. Do the root cause analysis for me and propose a change."

I immediately took the lead. I wrote the presentation, detailing the problem and, more importantly, the solution. I developed the change request: renaming the script, adding a warning in uppercase and red, and requiring the explicit confirmation. I sent an invite to the CTO and Jim for when they returned to the office from holidays.

On January 3rd, I met with the CTO again. I quickly went through the events, the human error, but my presentation focused mostly on prevention. "As it happened to me," I explained, "it can happen to anyone because the script was not clear. My proposed change will give the person running the script more control and reduce the risk."

At the end of my presentation the CTO smiled. "That sounds great, great ownership of the situation, thank you. I've already sent a message to approve the change request and you can proceed to implement it next Saturday in the maintenance window.". We hung up the call.

Then, Jim gave me the final, life-changing summary of the crisis: "And that's how crises are handled. You admit the mistake and quickly move on to how to prevent it from happening again. Good job."

The New Manager

That 20-minute event taught me everything about effective leadership and the power of human error. The greatest lesson was how my management treated me—he coached me privately, asked me for the solution (using my expertise), and then made me responsible for the fix.

Years later, I ended up taking Jim's role, when moved to another position he recommended for the job. I became the Service Delivery Manager for the entire area, leading teams across the Philippines, Costa Rica, and the United States. I was the first manager from Latin America in my group to hold delivery leadership for a major global IT firm, managing international teams.

Thank you for reading. While this story is based on real events, names and specific details have been altered to maintain confidentiality.

Outro: Leadership Lessons from the Crisis

If you've read this far, you know this story isn't about servers—it's about how leaders are made. The crisis taught me three core lessons, which are powerful regardless of where you sit in the organization.

For the IC Aspiring to Leadership: Accountability and Initiative

When you make a mistake, do not enter panic mode. The moment you admit fault—not with excuses, but with a commitment to a fix—you step into leadership. Own the error, own the solution, and schedule the follow-up meeting yourself. Your path to leading others is paved with proactivity and accountability.

For the First-Level Manager: Coaching for Ownership

To the manager who coaches teams every day: coach, don't command. My Service Delivery Manager didn't tell me what to do. He simply asked, "Is there any way that you can make sure this doesn't happen to anyone else?" He leveraged my shame into motivation, turning my technical expertise into a system-level solution. Your job is to elevate your ICs by making them the hero of the fix, not the scapegoat for the failure.

For the Executive Manager: Defining Culture Through Crisis

And finally, to the Executive Manager who sets the culture: When you focus on building resilience rather than assigning blame, you invest in talent. My Service Delivery Manager's response, and the CTO's final approval, created a culture of psychological safety. The company gained a permanent security fix and retained a high-potential employee who would later manage international delivery. When you focus on fixing the damage, not punishing the person, you invest in talent and resilience. This is how you build a team that runs toward crises, not away from them.

That, in 20 minutes of chaos, is one of the most valuable lessons I've ever learned.