Out of Work, Out of Tears, and Into What’s Next”

There is no graceful or neat way to lose a job. Some folks cry, others bark at the moon, and then there’s me, crying while barking at the moon, staring at text from my now former coworkers like it was written in ancient ruins. One minute I was balancing work,friends, family, my kids, and utility bills like a circus juggler. The next minute my paycheck vanished, about as fast as a lousy dating-app match who ghosts after “hey.”

When the shock finally thawed, I did the most ordinary thing ever: poured cereal for dinner, binged true-crime shows, and typed “make money fast, not illegal” into Google.

Somewhere between the panic eating and the pity party, a tiny bulb flicked on. I wasn’t really grieving the job. I was grieving the sense of direction it gave me.

Here’s the truth. That job was never meant to be forever. It was a layover. Sometimes life yanks the rug so you quit standing still.

Over the following weeks, I indulged in long, alcohol-fueled pity parties to self-soothe. I don't have anything significant to add beyond that. That's simply what I did, and then I reflected on my love for people, writing, and life in general.

Is it tidy now? Nope. Bills still knock, self-doubt still screams. So do fresh ideas and the thrill of realizing that starting over isn’t the end, it’s a remix.

Losing that job felt a lot like getting dumped when you thought everything was fine. Yesterday I was joking with my coworkers and today I’m clutching a cardboard box and wondering who I am without the purpose I felt when I was working. I won’t dress it up. It stung hard. Part of the pain was the paycheck, sure, but most of it came from realizing I’d poured so much of my energy into something that never wanted me to stick around.

Here’s what I’ve learned in the rubble: nothing lasts forever. Not the title on your linkden page not the steady direct deposits, and sometimes not even the people who swore they’d be beside you. Folks are layered, trust can crack, and the ones you counted on might be the first to ghost when the walls cave in.

Still, there’s a strange kind of grace hiding in the mess. You see who shows up, you remember what truly matters, and you find out you’re tougher than that punch in the gut. My heart’s bruised, no doubt about it, but my eyes are wide open now, and I’m done confusing comfort with real purpose.

So here’s to fresh starts, even the painful kind. Sometimes losing something is exactly what makes room for everything that’s trying to reach you.