If you are reading this, you may already know the feeling. The calendar invite that doesn't belong. The too-quiet hallway. The conversation that begins with "this isn't about your performance" and ends with your access being revoked before you've stood up from the chair.
You may be one of the thousands unexpectedly forced into a bewildering and often brutal transition—laid off, RIF'd, or otherwise stepping away from a role that defined not just your routine, but your identity. I want to speak directly to the pain of that moment, the weeks that follow, and the quest for what comes next.
I won't pretend I know exactly what you're experiencing. Every circumstance is its own unique confluence of financial stress, personal obligations, and professional loss. But I do know the feeling of the earth giving way beneath your feet, and I know the pain of having your self-worth pulled out from under you.
And to that feeling, I offer this truth: the fear, the grief, and the profound sense of failure you are feeling are valid. But you are not failing. You are human, and you are hurting.
Becoming Unmoored
For years, my identity was almost solely fused with my work. It was where I felt safe. It was where I felt of value. It was the crucible that forged my sense of worth. But there came a time, as is occurring with unjust frequency for many right now, when I had to leave a role. And while departure was the right choice, it came before I truly felt ready. I didn't just lose a job; I lost my anchor.
What filled the void was a torrent of everything I had been running from for years. The professional crisis collided with a health crisis, which surfaced unresolved trauma from a difficult adolescent health journey. Then, as the world grappled with movements like #MeToo, my own past—an array of experiences I had worked hard to suppress—came crashing down around me.
In less than one month, I was completely unmoored. I required medication for simple medical interactions. Nightmares and flashbacks became my companions. I remember sitting at my kitchen table, laptop open to a job board, unable to type a single search term—because every listing felt like a test I had already failed. The veneer of security and self-assurance I had built for myself was gone, replaced by every voice and experience that had ever told me that I was a failure, that I was unsafe, that I was not worth knowing.
In that state, the expectation to "pull yourself up by your bootstraps" and find a new job is not only unrealistic—it is cruel. For me, attempting to search for new work only reinforced the terrible feeling that I was inadequate, because all my self-worth was bound up in the thing I no longer had. If I was not met with immediate success, then I must have been wrong about my worth there, too.
Cleaning Out My Closet
I had to stop. I had to recognize that I was in no condition to be presenting myself to a potential employer. I was broken, and I needed to be honest about the repair work that was required. What followed was an intense, two-year period of self-doubt, self-loathing, self-discovery, and self-renewal. I had to clean out my closet (h/t Eminem).
This meant dumping out every box of unresolved history, every fear, every trauma, every misplaced notion of who I thought I should be. It was messy, painful, and exhausting. I had to decide what to keep, what to let go, and what I was finally ready to process and neatly fold away. I pivoted to consulting—a space that allowed me to use my skills and engage my network, while also prioritizing my healing. This was not a professional pivot; it was an existential one. I wasn't fixing my resume; I was healing my soul. I was learning that my worth was not a title, a salary, or an office, but an inherent quality of my existence.
What I Want You to Hear
If you are struggling right now, please know that the greatest strength is not the speed with which you land your next role, but the grace and courage with which you navigate what may feel like a dark chapter. You are being asked to do the hard work of processing loss while managing anxiety, of confronting deep-seated fears while attempting to present a confident face to the world. As you take care, please consider the following:
- Validate your Pain: You have suffered a profound loss. Give yourself space to mourn. The job was real. The relationships were real. The grief deserves room.
- Seek Shelter, Not Speed: The goal is not to sprint to the next job. The goal is to get to a place where you can breathe again. Focus on small, sustainable acts of self-care.
- Your Worth is Immutable: You are more than your job, your industry, or your salary. Your talent, your experience, and your capacity to be a force for good remain untouched by any layoff notice, severance, or early retirement.
It took me two years, but I eventually redefined myself. I got a new job, not as the person I was but as the person I became after walking through the fire. And, believe me, years later my journey continues.
I love my job. It affords me the opportunity to grow, I am inspired daily by my colleagues, and I am incredibly proud of the work I do. But I also know that some of my fulfillment stems from owning that I matter whether I am in this role or not.
You are not alone in this grief. You are not alone in the fear. You are not alone in the hard work of rebuilding. You will get through this, not by numbing or forgetting the pain, but by integrating it into the newer, more powerful version of yourself.
I know this because I was unmoored once, too. And I found ground again—different ground, steadier ground, ground I built for myself. You will, too.
Keep going.