messy

stage of uncertainty

I was shaking with nerves, and after chugging a huge coffee that morning and eating nothing afterward, low blood sugar had me in its grips. I knew the moment I opened the Zoom link that this was it. My heart sank, and like ripping off a bandage, my manager read — in a monotonous voice — my redundancy package. To say that Monday sucked would be an understatement.

After four years of work — of continuous disheveled business plans and my boss essentially checking out and moving to Italy — I was given one month’s extra salary. Tax included, of course.

Afterward, I walked into the garden and told my mom. She thought I was joking. And like the supporter she is, she said, “Oh, well fuck them,” and proceeded to make me my favourite bowl of noodles for lunch. I then told my dad, who also thought I was joking; he gave me a hug and said I’d find something better.

I wasn’t in love with what I did, and it wasn’t the most stable of jobs, but I had a lot of freedom and creative control.

After the call, I accepted my redundancy fairly easily. I knew the business had been struggling for a while, and I’d made attempts to leave. In January, I was told we were turning a corner, that plans were being built for the longevity of the business, and that I could shape my dream role. As a born-and-bred Negative Nancy, I don’t take anyone’s word seriously unless it’s written and stamped with approval — and even then, I’m wary. Still, I plodded forward with the best of intentions. I knew the business was struggling, but I always thought it was in the realm of “we can’t afford to give you a pay rise,” not “we can’t afford to pay you at all.”

My dad told me to take a two-week break, to stay off LinkedIn. I was on LinkedIn that night, scrolling for new jobs. I applied for three. Just in case, I told myself.

Tuesday

Depression arrived, sharp and swift. What was I going to do with my time? I need plans. Structure. Productive actions that lead to results. I’ve never not been working toward something. Then the sudden thought: I’ve wasted four years of my life appeared. I pushed it as far down as I could. Even that was too much to tackle in one day. One depressive thought at a time, I think.

They say walking can remedy any situation, so I left the house, determined to stay offline and sort myself out. The further I walked from home, the less I wanted to return to it. If I stayed out all day and night, responsibility surely wouldn’t find me, right? It felt strange to be outside, not strapped to my computer, responding to emails, writing marketing jargon, or sitting in meetings that most definitely could have been a succinct email.

When I got home, desperate to feel like I’d done something useful, I made a sourdough starter. If I did this right, by next weekend I could be making fresh sourdough. One new recipe a week, I told myself. I have all the time in the world to cook something new. No excuses.

Wednesday

I set off on another day of adventure. On the bus to Brixton, Bargaining set in.

I kept replaying it all in my head, going over the moments that might have mattered. A fantasy that I could somehow undo what happened. I imagined versions of myself making slightly different choices, ones that somehow led to a better outcome. But deep down, it was really about wanting to believe I had more power over the outcome than I did. It was easier to believe I could have changed the ending than to accept that I couldn’t.

When I came home, I fed my sourdough starter. I named him Sammy. I watered my hanging tomato plant. Gardening. Maybe I’ll do that again too, I thought.

A handful of texts came in from people I’d worked with. I ignored all of them. I didn’t want to talk to anyone.

Thursday

Anger. She’d finally arrived — uninvited but not unexpected.

I sat down with the intention of being productive, of clearing the decks — life admin, unread emails, texts I’d undutifully ignored. I opened my messages and there they were: two from people who, to put it gently, were... challenging to work with. Lovely enough personalities, sure, but with the work ethic of a potato chip. And suddenly, I felt it — an irritation that tightened in my chest, a low hum rising fast.

I’ve worked hard at everything I do. My whole life. I was the kid who started school assignments the day they were given, who did all the assigned reading, who double- and triple-checked every piece of work before turning it in. That’s who I shaped myself to be — reliable, diligent, quietly overachieving. If you gave me a task, you could count on me to get it done. Always.

So how was it me who ended up out of a job? How was it that the one who held things together — often with hypothetical duct tape and sheer willpower — was the one who got let go? Call it ego if you want, but I know what I gave. I know how hard I worked with what little I had (hello, One-Woman Band). And still, it was me. Not them.

The messages were probably sent with kindness, maybe even sympathy — but they landed wrong. It wasn’t just rage — it was heartbreak in armor. A response to the gut-punch of unfairness. A flailing attempt to make sense of a decision that felt like it cut through more than just my employment. It touched something deeper: my sense of worth, my belief that hard work would always count for something.

Friday

After applying to nine jobs throughout the week with no response — no surprises there — I diverted from the Stages of Grief and created my own stage. Enter: Panic. Now this went beyond What will I do with my time? to What will I do with my life?

I’m 28. And for someone who says they’re flexible, I realise I’m really not. I don’t go through life on whims. I don’t live life on the edge, I have comfy borders that I rest against. I have visions for what I want my life to be and this isn’t it.

I spiraled, then aggressively sent my CV out to three more jobs. I briefly considered pitching myself in LinkedIn post, but that felt slightly cringe and I’m not yet hitting rock bottom.

Then I burst into tears. I stayed offline the rest of the day.

---

They say the hardest part is to begin. For me, it’s also the slowest. The most disorienting. It’s not just the starting — it’s the sitting with the not-knowing, the dragging myself through false starts, the pretending I know what I’m doing when I’m not sure I do.

Maybe there isn’t a lesson. Maybe this is just a shitty week in a string of other shitty weeks, and I’m trying to convince myself I’m building something when really, I’m just floating.

And maybe that’s the best I can do right now.