An End, a Beginning

A year and one week later, the corporate layoffs come for me

Then
I am sitting in a carrel desk at the library, “attending” a companywide all hands meeting, camera off. A mile or two away, the internet is down at our home. Ten miles away, a fire rages in the Eaton Canyon, destroying homes, dreams, legacies, the air, the earth. Twenty miles away, a different fire rages in the Palisades, equally as destructive and devastating.

As smoky red sunlight streams in through the nearby window, the CEO at my job is explaining how seven positions have been terminated. How times are tough and we needed to make hard decisions to keep the company going. How we need to stay focused on efficiency and working on the things that truly move the needle for our customers. How we will get through these hard times but they will continue to feel hard for a bit.

My heart is breaking. I have witnessed a lot of layoffs during my time, but this round cuts deep. Smart, hardworking and caring people I’ve worked alongside for years are gone. People who got me through the pandemic, who celebrated me, who had children around when I did, who made me laugh through the mess and made it feel a little bit less messy.

My brain is breaking. I’m glued to this stiff wooden chair, trying to force myself to work and be productive after a layoff, to keep a target off my back, while everything is literally burning down. While the air gets worse and I worry about how much it will affect my toddler who loves nothing more than going to the park everyday, how much our small apartment can entertain them.

I’m filled with rage– many people on this call, many of those receiving termination agreements in their personal inboxes right now, are near the fires. Their loved ones could be losing everything. And this? THIS is the time we let people go “for the good of the company?” You want me to think about efficiency and “focusing on what matters” while the sky fills with smoke, lead and chemicals from fifty plus year old homes? While I worry about the health of my child?

I’m filled with fear–when is this coming for me? How will I support my family without this job? Where can I even go with my Very Specific, Super Niche role and skill set? How can I keep “looking valuable” to the powers that be when I just want to scream and cry and my brain can’t focus? How can I motivate myself to come up with new products to sell at this jobs when the world burns and it all feels so fucking pointless?

I move my mouse around and attempt to work on a presentation for a bit, time feels so fast and so very slow. My phone screen lights up, my parents are calling for once to see if we’re okay in the fires. I don’t have the energy or the quiet space in this open work area to answer the call.

Lunch time is approaching, and I can’t stay here any longer. I want to get home, even though that means no internet, no work. I can’t do this right now, being productive while the earth burns. While my colleagues are transferring files off their computers while all their access is being revoked.

What the actual fuck is happening right now?

Now
I am dumping a bag of toddler clothes I picked up from another parent in the neighborhood on the bed, about to see what we’ll keep and what we’ll pass on. My call to my best friend has just gone through, our semi-usual weekly phone chat while she drives home from drop off and I settle into work after preparing my child for school.

Just as we begin to talk, I turn around and open my work laptop on my desk, the screens loading and my email coming in. I don’t have a meeting until 10:30, so I can go through this one bag of clothes, catch up with my friend and do some mindless tasks before my meeting.

A meeting invite catches my eye. It’s with the CEO and HR, set to start in 6 minutes. Panic rises and spreads throughout my body.

Fuck. It’s over.

“I think I have to go. Fuck, I think I’m getting fired in 6 minutes,” my voice wavering.

We quickly hang up and I call my husband, telling him the same thing.

6 minutes later, I am laid off. A year and one week later, another devastating layoff comes again, this time for me and my entire department.

I am in shock, but I am not crushed. I am not destroyed.

There is much to figure out: insurance, how to make my child’s doctor appointments work out for next month, where would be the best place to get insurance, how to file for unemployment, how to keep my child’s life as normal as possible and keep the lights on.

There is much that’s been in the works over the last year. As the grief and ashy air dissipated, what was left were a million screaming neon signs, all saying girl, time to get the fuck out. Time. To. GO. I cried through the fear and anger of transitioning to another job field in therapy, did countless explorations of what was out there, hired a job coach, rewrote my resume and rebuilt a portfolio site from scratch, throwing the 8 year old one out the window. In the dark after bedtime I chipped away at the mountain of change that needed to happen.

My exit has been in the works and the company’s bottom line beat me to it. But I know it’s beyond time. This is for my family, for our future, for me. What I’ve known for a few years has come to fruition: this part of my life is really, fully, finally over.

I could be sobbing, I could be wracked with worry, but none of that is here. The more I move through the day, the more relief I feel. Relief that I never have to bite my tongue at “feedback” that comes at the whims of That Brand of Corporate White Woman, that I won’t be screaming at my computer while telling a coworker the same feedback I’ve been giving for the past eight years: slow down, read the directions, follow those. That I won’t be speaking about strategy in companywide meetings that kinda makes sense, but the more you look at it, it doesn’t. That I won’t have to keep advocating for change on any level that will continue to be ignored.

I know the next thing will come, hopefully this year. I know we will figure it out, there’s no other option. Motherhood continues to show me that even when life is hard and confounding, it also goes on in a way I didn’t know before. There will still be dancing in the kitchen, giggles before bed, running hugs at pick up. I keep going because of my baby, for my baby. It’s just a calm fact in my body.

As the day progresses, I wrap things up enough on this, my last day: finishing small easy tasks to help those who are left, canceling standing meetings, transferring files, queuing a goodbye email because I know they will never share that I am gone and finally moving all of the decks I’ve made off my personal email account.

The tedious process of changing file ownership to fifty or so presentations resurfaces old versions of professional me in a job I’ve had for almost nine years. Different projects, partnerships, research avenues. I’ve done so much in this time; learned so much, grown so much, felt so much. And now, it is done.

School pick up time approaches and we both go: one of my child’s classmates is celebrating their birthday with mochi. I love taking any chances I get to talk to and see other parents, my job usually preventing me from doing school pick ups. We hang around for a bit while other parents chat and kids run around with mochi ice cream in their fists and floral crowns on their heads.

I say hello with a hug to some of our maestras. How are you doing? They ask. I answer with the truth: I got laid off today. It’s a strange feeling, to not hide the hard things, to be honest so quickly outside of my close circle of friends. It’s a good feeling, to let this go, to not feel ashamed, to let myself be seen more fully.

Back at home, file transfers continue to chug along through dinner and toddler shower and my usually shut computer remains open as the sun sets. More of my professional life flashes before my eyes with more presentation transfers, more wrap ups while just over my shoulder, my toddler screams “twinkle twinkle little star” in the shower, rolls around on our bed as they’re being changed into their pajamas.

The final file completes twenty minutes before IT is scheduled to revoke my clearance. I’ve sent the emails with wrap ups and passwords, my goodbye email has gone through. I’ve deleted Slack off of this computer. Eight plus years of my life is done, wrapped up in a strange bow on a Friday night. Toddler screams erupt from the other room as I close the laptop for the final time as an employee.

It’s really over. A deep breath escapes my lips as my hands linger over the laptop lid. I’ve imagined this moment feeling… different. More triumphant, more satisfying, more like completing a cycle. With the screams for me from the other room, it just feels like another day, but it’s far from it.

This is an end. This is a beginning. This is a walk into the unknown, holding my toddler’s hand and their snacks in the other.

Let’s see where this takes us.

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