Let me not bury the lede – in mid-March, I was let go from my job of nearly seven years. I’ve taken the last six weeks to process the loss, and I’ve been thinking a lot (and spiraling, honestly) about the future. This essay is behind a paywall to protect my privacy, but also because I’m very suddenly unemployed for the first time since I went to grad school, which feels like another lifetime. In many ways, it was. I’ll have more about what’s next for me and this newsletter next week in a free issue for everyone to read. Thanks so much for your support and kindness as I journey through this transition.
The email pinged as it arrived in my inbox, a tiny grey rectangle flying across the top right corner of my screen. My eyes narrowed as I clicked into the email. It was an automated message from a platform I used almost every day. Your access has been revoked. If this is a mistake, please contact your account administrator.
Huh, I thought. That’s weird.
I minimized the window, going back to finish something unrelated before looking into it. Less than a minute later, the page reloaded, bouncing me out to a blank screen with a harrowing message on it:
Your account does not have access to view this page. Please try logging in with a different account.
A pit formed in my stomach as I refreshed the page. Twice. Again. No change. Anxiety wrapped around my intuition in a gentle chokehold. I sat deathly still at my dining room table, the tips of my fingers barely grazing the faded black keys of my company laptop. The letters “A” and “O” had worn almost completely off my keyboard, nearly seven years of constant typing archived in its past. My chair scraped loudly as I scooted back and reached for my phone, heart lodged in my throat.
Panic seeped slowly into my chest and I started to pace, aimlessly walking into my bedroom for no reason other than to get further away from the ticking time bomb sitting on my dining room table. I clutched my phone tighter, staring at my home screen. My thumb tapped, then hovered over my husband’s name, but I paused. Clearly I was overreacting. I had no reason to believe I was being let go, even though I knew on some deeper level that’s exactly what was happening.
Shouldn't I have received a bad performance review before this? Some kind of warning? Surely this is a mistake, I thought. I need to handle it like a professional.
I strode purposefully to my computer and sat down again, pulling up a chat box. I started tapping out a message to my boss – but he was already typing.