Unrecognizable

To say I didn’t see it coming is the understatement of the century.

I was in the car driving my daughter to her orthodontist appointment; she was getting ready to start high school in a few days, and it was finally time to have her braces removed. It was an exciting day.

The afternoon before, my boss had rescheduled a meeting, so we were arriving to the appointment early so I could have the meeting in the car before heading into the orthodontist. On the way, I explained to Elliott that I didn’t know what the meeting was about, but it wouldn’t take long and she just needed to sit there quietly. I even said, “It’s not like I’m going to be fired or anything.”

I don’t know why I thought to say that.

30 minutes later, my boss and a random HR lady I’d never met before informed me my position was being eliminated, and I was being laid off. It was a Wednesday in July. My last day would be Friday.

As I sat stunned in the driver’s seat of my car with the rising sun in my face, my daughter wept silently. I couldn’t cry, not in front of this boss who I despised or my daughter who I loved fiercely. My boss read her prepared statement without acknowledging me or even saying hello. Then she signed off and left me with an HR lady to go over severance and PTO payouts and returning my computer equipment.

I didn’t understand a word she was saying. I focused on my breathing and not getting upset in front of my daughter who was sobbing in the seat next to me as she texted her dad.

The call ended, and we stepped out of the car to walk toward the orthodontist office. At the last second, I remembered to take a picture of Elliott, the last one with her braces still on. Her eyes were swollen and red, tears still staining her cheeks. I wanted everything to be normal and fine for her. This was supposed to be a good morning. I had to pretend it still was.

I told her everything was fine, hugged her, assured her I was okay, and then sent her back to have metal and glue scraped from her teeth.

She cried quietly through the whole appointment.

I had been given the rest of the day off. My job didn’t exist anymore, so what was the point of working? I finished out my last two days and ended my time with a send-off from my coworkers. It was tradition, on a person’s last day, to say goodbye with funny memes, kind words, and silly games. A virtual going-away party. But the party had never been for someone who was laid off. It was always a celebration, a bittersweet see-you-later.

My party was horrible. I loved my coworkers, and I loved my job. I was proud of the work we did, and the people I worked with were some of the best. All thirteen people present cried. No one was happy; we were all shocked and sad. It was the worst party I’ve ever been to. Everyone said nice things about me and that was also horrible. I lost count of the times I had to turn my camera off, because ugly crying at your work going-away party is such a bummer.

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I’d met the woman—the one who selected my position to be eliminated—the year before at a company retreat. When she became my boss a few months later, she informed me during our first meeting that she had not liked me from the moment she met me.

I was too proud of the work we were doing. I bragged about our data too much. I took too much credit for the success of the content I created and managed.

She was—it goes without saying—a shitty boss. She was immature, unsure, and manipulative. She liked to keep secrets and withhold information. She didn’t like questions, which is an unhelpful trait when you’re the manager and your teams need to know how to do their jobs.

She disliked me for all the reasons a bully is mean in middle school: she was scared people would realize she didn’t know what she was doing. And I often asked questions that highlighted deficiency, which made me a target.

The good news is I wasn’t the only target. But she eliminated that woman’s position too, so she really showed us.

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Losing a job you love is devastating.

I know you’re supposed to hold a job loosely, your job is not your life. Your life is your life and the job is just a way to help you live your life.

But I loved my job anyway.

Without exaggerating, I probably acknowledged how lucky I was to have the job I did and how much I loved what I was doing at least twice a week. It felt ridiculously privileged to get to combine the things I loved—teaching and writing and never leaving the house—into a job that paid my bills and more. I worked with smart, creative people who challenged me and made me better. I went from impacting one hundred students a year in the classroom to thousands each month. I got to write the instruction for The Outsiders, a book I loved teaching, so that thousands of students learned about poverty and friendship and grief and love. I wish I could say I didn’t feel so proud about the work I was doing, maybe my boss would have hated me less if I didn’t care so much, but I did.

And then someone who didn’t even understand my job was able to eliminate it due to budget cuts and pettiness. It’s been over a year since this has happened. I’m not writing from a place of anger anymore, just honesty. I don’t want you to read this and think I’m sinking to her level. I refuse to do that.

But I do know my job shouldn’t have been eliminated. I do know she did this out of spite.

And I know this because soon after my last day, my boss got a new boss because of all the bad choices she was making. And soon everyone realized what some of us already knew, and she was fired. And now they’re trying to re-create my position to make up for the mess she made. They’re trying to bring back an integral part of a product she tried to ruin.

I hope they can right the ship, because I still love the product I worked on and the people still there. They deserve a calm, safe work environment and smart, capable leaders. I hope they get that soon.

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It’s hard to find the words to describe how depressed I became after losing my job.

A few days after I was laid off, my girls went back to school. I was able to get everyone where they needed to be and then spend the day frozen. I didn’t know how to recover from this blow that felt so personal. I know a layoff isn’t supposed to be personal—I was one of thirty people who lost their jobs that day—but I knew why my boss had chosen my position. And that made it so much worse.

I told very few people about losing my job. It took me two months to tell my mom, three months to tell my dad. If Elliott hadn’t been in the car with me that day, I’m not sure I would have told the girls for a while. I felt so ashamed and sad. It felt like failure, and I was so embarrassed. I didn’t know how much my job made me feel secure, but having it ripped away made everything feel out of control. I would like to pretend that’s not true, but I’m not good at pretending.

I isolated myself from everyone. I didn’t want to go anywhere or do anything. I went radio silent in a few friend groups and only one person reached out or asked how I was doing. I didn’t think I could feel worse, but I was wrong. I was the friend who helped you move, who dropped off food, who showed up to celebrate you, but apparently that was all I was good for. It was not to be expected from others. No need to check on someone who seems to have disappeared, someone who doesn’t normally do that. Sometimes I just felt like I was being a victim and making everything about me—depression is good at that—but I can look back now with clearer eyes and say that was shitty. I deserved better friends.

I had a really hard time finding a job and that made my depression worse. I couldn’t get out of the funk I was in, and then I kept getting rejected for jobs I was qualified or over-qualified for. [I’m going to write more about this tomorrow.] My layoff felt personal—it was my personality and work style my boss found so offensive—and applying for a new job feels so vulnerable, especially when you’re unemployed, that I took every rejection email as another blow to my non-existent self worth.

Chris, without mentioning it, upped his depression medicine. I know he did this without telling me because I was too fragile to know. My mental health is tied so extricably to my family’s that being sad felt dangerous at times. I tried to be sad during the day while everyone was gone and then “normal” when everyone was home. I know it wasn’t working, but no one pointed it out. I’ve always been the strong one, the one who helps everyone else hold it together, but I was barely hanging on by the end of most days. I was on edge, impatient, and snippy. I couldn’t get control of what I was feeling or literally anything and a single, small need from someone else in my family felt overwhelming.

And then I felt guilty about all of it.

Rinse and repeat.

Fall was hard. Winter was harder. Spring felt hard but with whispers of hope like it always does. By summer, I began to think I might never find a job, might never not be depressed, might never be who I was. I’d like to say that’s hyperbole, but my brain and every rejection email confirmed it. I would never recover from this blow. I had done something wrong, I was unlikable, I was unemployable.

The one-year anniversary of being laid off came and went. I had been unemployed for a year. I did not recognize myself, my life, or my future.