If you had asked me a few years ago what my early adulthood would look like, losing my mother and losing my job would not have been on the list.
During the first year of my MPH, my mother was diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukemia. Nine months later, she died. At an age when many people are figuring out careers, apartments, relationships, and what kind of adult they want to become, I was also learning how to navigate profound grief. I was learning how to live in a world without the person who knew me the best.
There is no roadmap for that kind of loss. During the months that followed, I did what many grieving people do, keep moving. I went to class, completed assignments, and attended meetings. From the outside, it looked like everything was continuing as planned. Inside, I was trying to understand how the future could continue when one of the people I imagined sharing it with was gone.
I graduated. I searched for jobs and finally found one. Slowly, life began to feel possible again.
Not normal. Not healed. Just possible.
For the first time since my mom’s death, I could picture a future that felt exciting and had something to look forward to rather than just going through the daily motions. Each day, I helped collect and improve the quality of injury surveillance data that researchers rely on to understand and prevent injury. I was developing new skills, learning from talented colleagues, and beginning to build a professional identity. More than anything, I felt like I was moving beyond surviving.
Just as life was beginning to feel stable again, it shifted. In May 2025, a year after graduating, I was back at my alma mater to watch my friends graduate. While celebrating their accomplishments, I received a meeting request from my boss. Upon receiving his email, I had a feeling. Changes had already been taking place regarding reporting requirements, and rumblings were emerging about funding concerns. Somehow, in the very place where my life had come crumbling down a year and a half earlier, it was happening again.
What surprised me was not that I felt disappointed. What surprised me was how much it hurt.
The grief was different from losing my mom, but it carried similar feelings. Once again, something I loved was suddenly gone. Once again, I found myself staring at a future that no longer looked the way I thought it would. Once again, I was forced to answer questions I didn’t feel prepared to answer.
Who am I now?
What happens next?
How do I move forward when the road I imagined has been upended?
I told myself I should be thankful for the experience and the contacts I made, update my resume, and move on.
But grief does not respond to “should.”
What I was mourning was not only a job. I was mourning the future I once had dreamed of. I was mourning the opportunity to continue learning, the colleagues I would no longer work alongside, and the steadiness I had worked to rebuild after my mom’s death.
For a long time, I thought adulthood was a series of milestones. Go to college. Get a graduate degree. Land my first job. Build a career. Create a life. I thought if I worked hard and stuck to my one, five, and ten-year plans I created as a teenager, everything would fall into place.
The last few years have taught me otherwise.
Losing my mom proved to me that life can change in an instant. Losing my job has demonstrated that rebuilding is not a one-time event. Sometimes when you feel like you’ve found solid ground again, the ground shifts beneath your feet.
When my mom died, I didn’t know if I would ever feel like myself again. I very quickly learned that grief does not disappear, and instead, it becomes a part of who you are. Grief teaches you how to carry loss and joy at the same time. Grief forces you to keep living even when you don’t think you can.
That lesson has stayed alongside me throughout, too.
I still do not know what comes next. I am still applying to jobs a year later and am trying to figure out where my road leads from here. Some days that uncertainty feels manageable. Other days, it feels all-consuming and overwhelming. Over the past year, I have learned that moving forward isn’t always measured by job titles, offers, or interviews. Sometimes it has meant asking for help by finding a therapist. Sometimes it has meant going for a run, baking something simply because I enjoy sharing with others, or losing myself in a craft project for an afternoon. Those moments haven’t erased the uncertainty, but they have reminded me that even in the midst of grief and disappointment, there is still room for peace and joy.
What I know now is that losing my job did not take away any of my accomplishments. All that I learned, all the relationships I formed, and my passion for health policy remain.