What It's Like to Get Laid Off

Thoughts on a dreaded but common misfortune

I was laid off on Jan. 6, 2025. It stung, but there was a sense of relief too. In this post, which I began writing the morning of—minutes after finding out I was going to lose my job but before I actually did—I discuss what the day was like and how I felt in the aftermath. If you enjoy my writing, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber. —FLD

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An hour ago, I received a calendar invite titled “Important Update.” There is no meeting as quiet yet deafening as the one that bears bad news. The attendees: myself, the head of my team, and HR. The trifecta of corporate doom. Within seconds, my heart is racing, my palms are sweating, and my stomach has produced a fist-sized knot. The mind-body connection is intense.

It is a gray and cold morning. I sit upright in bed and let myself be for a few minutes. This is really happening, I think while watching my cat groom himself. I want to lie back down and preserve what warmth and ignorance remains with me in the bed, but I get up because I know it will make me feel better. I change into a sweatshirt low on the spectrum of presentability. I brush my teeth and hair, but leave my glasses on. I walk to my desk, sit down, and text my uncle and friend, Alexa.

My uncle is a business owner. He offers to review the separation agreement that was likely to be sent over. (It was; he did.) Alexa has spent the better part of her career in an HR-adjacent role. She knows payroll, benefits, the unsexy inner workings of a company’s operations. The first text she sends: “I am so sorry.” Followed by a list of questions I could, and should, ask: “Am I eligible for rehire? Is there severance? Is severance negotiable? How long will my benefits and health insurance continue? Are my 401(k) company matches fully vested if they weren’t already?”

The first full work week in January is a common time for layoffs, she tells me; it allows people to enjoy the holidays. Then she says, “This is a reflection of poor leadership, irresponsible corporate spending, and a weird economy. This is in no way a reflection of your value as an employee or your worth as a human.” I heart her message immediately.

She’s right, but what is my fault is staying at a company that had visible signs of distress. Our holiday party in 2021 was at a one-star Michelin restaurant. I brought a friend as my plus-one. We oohed and aahed at the multi-story venue, tasteful decorations, and caviar bar. Our holiday parties the two years after were at the office. I picked at cheese and grapes on a board and told my then-boyfriend about it afterward. In 2024, the company moved it back to a restaurant, at least. No Michelin star or plus-ones, but we, employees, welcomed an evening of festivities among a somber corporate disposition.

There had been rounds of layoffs before mine, key leaders resigned, and at all-hands meetings, the CEO used phrases like “not profitable,” “can’t go on like this,” and “need to do better.” Still, smart and kind co-workers, a stylish office, catered lunches, good work-life balance, and a six-figure salary are enough for most to hit snooze over and over again. That is, until it’s Monday morning and you’re browsing Reddit for inspirational stories about job loss as you wait to get fired.

“This is NOT a firing,” Alexa inserts.
“Oh, ok. Corporate restructuring,” I reply.
“Yes, or reduction in force.”

As my 10 AM meeting approaches, I feel calm and ready to face a dreaded but common misfortune. I tell Alexa I’ll text her on the other side before catching a glimpse of the date.

“OMG. Happy birthday!” I say. She sends a photo of her son on a Mickey Mouse blanket with the numbers 1-12 on it; the 6 is circled. He is six months old today. It is also his first day at daycare.

“New beginnings for us all!” I write back.

Usually, I am punctual, but I think it fitting to roll in a minute late. I don’t want to be there, in the abyss, waiting for my messengers. I want to be greeted and received. After all, I am the guest of honor.

I log onto Zoom and the vibes are sickly. The woman from HR appears composed but my team lead looks diseased with anxiety. His eyebrows furrow and flicker. His lips purse and his eyes twitch. His face is a symphony of discomfort. I feel bad that he has to do this. Later, Alexa will say that “having to deliver the news is a huge part of why our generation and younger isn’t enticed by the middle-management life.”

He speaks first, with grief and precision, then passes it to HR, who gives me a short spiel on what to expect next. I ask the 401(k) question from Alexa’s list, then another simply to demonstrate the strength in my voice—that I am not going to run into traffic after we all hang up. The meeting lasts eight minutes. It is frankly boring.

Immediately, I send Alexa the highlight reel: “Benefits until the end of the month. COBRA eligible in February. Last paycheck tomorrow,” and so on. I want to know how my “release” compares to others’. How my company, with an ethos next to ‘bring your whole self to work,’ treats its people on the way out.

“Severance is a little weak, but so are their finances,” she says. “I’m proud of you. Go get Starbucks or a donut.”

I text my only work friend: “I wanted you to hear it from me.”

By afternoon, I return to homeostasis. I eat food, wrap up a little work (…yes), and reply to the messages pouring in from co-workers expressing condolences and support. I update my fiancé, sift through digital paperwork, and transfer whatever valuables in my work drive over to my personal accounts. The day you are let go is a busy workday after all.

It reminds me of the week in 2021 when I met two magazine story deadlines while in the deepest state of grief I’d ever known. Days prior, I had found out my long-term boyfriend cheated on me. And there I was, at a barren kitchen table writing two-thousand words about the maximalist interior design trends making a comeback and how Jim Gaffigan juggles a career in comedy and five children. A glaring to-do list is an effective distraction from your own stench.

In a dining hall in 2012, my best friend in college told me about the day her mother died. In the hours after, she described sitting in the car at a gas station grappling with the fact that life went on without the most important person in her world. Strangers filled their tanks. Clouds rotated in the sky. Somewhere, a squirrel ran behind a tree. How could it be? she thought. She was changed but everything else remained the same. For me, losing a job isn’t close to death or heartbreak, but it is a sobering reminder of what it’s like to be a Victim of Life. There you are, now deal with it.

For nearly four years, I worked as an editor at a boutique agency in San Francisco. I sat on a small but mighty team of former journalists from WIRED, LA Magazine, Associated Press, and Playboy. Together, we produced whatever content a client wanted; it could be a written story for their corporate blog or “editorial hub,” a podcast, a short film, a speech, or a newsletter. It was not categorically important work, but it allowed me to write and edit writers with bylines in The Atlantic, GQ, Vox, Bloomberg, all the New York-branded media, and AARP Bulletin, which does not sound sexy but is the second-most widely circulated publication in the country. We did a lot with tech, AI, and blue state matters. In the office, I sat feet away from a floor to ceiling portrait of Obama. No one touched the bookshelves organized by color or the Hermès throw blanket on the back of the communal couch.

It feels a bit backward losing my job as an editor, whose sole function is to make something more effective, polished, and complete. Editors usually have the final say. Only after one, or two, or three have looked at a story does it go to the masses for public consumption. Removing an editor’s touch is like withholding the maraschino cherry from a plated slice of white frosted cake. Without one, how do you know a thing is good or ready? Of course, my former team will absorb my responsibilities. One of the most frustrating parts of being let go is that while an individual loses their daily structure, the employer keeps its own.

An editor with nothing to edit must start from scratch. She becomes the baker—kneading dough, cracking eggs, cutting butter. In order to edit, I have to write first. And that, dear reader, is exactly what this, The FLD, is.

If you’ve been laid off, what was your experience like? Was it a net positive or negative? Drop a comment below if you’d like to share.