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When I got the job offer, I cried.

Not like, teared up. I mean cried. The kind of crying that my husband could still hear over the phone even after I had collected myself enough to call him with the good news.

Because this wasn't just any job. This was the job. The one I had thought about landing since I was a baby-faced college intern, reading up on things like "accrued interest" and "revenue recognition" so I could write financial dictionary definitions without sounding like I was guessing. This was the kind of role you hold up to your parents and say, "See? I told you this would all work out."

It was with one of the oldest, best-known financial publishing groups in the country — a company that had made it through recessions, bear markets, and handfuls of presidents. It was stable. It paid well. It came with benefits journalists only hear about in stories, like generous 401(k) matches and reimbursement for professional development and extravagant Christmas parties.

I explained to my husband, "It's like I'm going to work for the Empire in Star Wars."

I meant it in a good way.

You know — massive, indestructible, enormous presence in the industry. Sure, they had their flaws (don't we all), but mostly, it felt like I'd be stepping into a machine that would keep running no matter what. Something I could count on.

Which made it all the more disorienting when, less than four months later, the company announced it was shutting down. Completely.

Like... poof. Gone.

They let more than 60% of the staff go that same day. (The rest stayed on until the end of the year to tie up loose ends, send farewell emails, and try not to cry into their ergonomic keyboard trays.) One minute, I was working for the Empire. The next minute, I was in the wreckage of the Death Star, wondering if I'd missed a memo.

And here's the kicker: I had left a job at a startup to take this "stable" role.

Let me say that again, just for the people in the back.

I left a riskier, less stable job to join one of the most established publishing groups in my industry... and was laid off within half a year.

If that's you — hang tight. I've been there. I made it through. And while I wouldn't want to go through it again, I was ultimately able to find a lot of positives in my experience. Eventually.

But before we get to the part where I tell you how I rebuilt my life... let me walk you through what it was actually like to lose the job that I thought would change everything.

Because it did.

Just not in the way I expected.

I Thought I Was Safe — Until I Wasn't

They broke the news to everyone on a last-minute Zoom meeting (of course). I received a calendar invite out of nowhere the morning of. No agenda. Just a few department heads, a lot of confused faces, and one senior leader who cleared her throat like she was about to deliver a eulogy.

And I guess, in a way, she was.

She told us the company would be shutting down. That we had done great work. That we should all be proud of what we'd built. That we'd be receiving severance and benefits for the next three months, effective immediately.

Effective. Immediately.

I sat there blinking at my screen, trying to process what had just happened. I had Slack messages still open. Tabs I hadn't closed. A to-do list half-finished on my desk.

My planner still had "finalize editorial calendar" scheduled for 3 p.m.

By 3 p.m., I didn't have a job.

The layoff hit just one year after my twins were born, which meant I was still adjusting to life with two tiny humans who, for the record, could not have cared less about our household budget (let alone my professional ambitions). I was still recalibrating our family's finances, our childcare setup, our sleep schedule (ha), and my sense of self.

Add "full-time job loss" to that list — something I'd never experienced since I first started working more than a decade before — and suddenly things felt very, very upside down.

I still woke up at the same time. I still checked my email like something was waiting for me. I still thought about upcoming projects or deadlines before I would remember —oh right. That's not my problem anymore.

I don't work there.

I don't work anywhere.

And even though I knew — rationally, statistically — that it wasn't my fault, that I did nothing wrong, that it wasn't about me...

...it was hard not to feel like it was.

Like I had failed.

I tried staying positive. "I have plenty of talent. I'll land on my feet in no time!"

Unfortunately, "no time" turned into six months of interviews that went nowhere.

Sometimes it turned into wondering if my industry even wanted me anymore.

Sometimes it turned into sitting on the floor of my closet just to have a quiet place to cry where the kids wouldn't find me.

And eventually, it turned into something else entirely.

But we're not there yet.

This Was Supposed to Be Temporary

After the shock wore off, I did something I hadn't done since high school.

I woke up with nowhere to be.

No meetings. No deadlines. No Slack pings. Just the distant sound of the twins giggling and throwing stuffed animals between their cribs.

For the first week, I gave myself a pass. I called it "time to reflect," which is to say, I spent a truly unholy number of hours trying to figure out what my ideal life might look like, assuming money wasn't an obstacle. Was I pursuing things that made my life fulfilling? What would I do more or less of, if given the choice? What would it look like for me to truly show up for myself, my spouse, my family, my friends, my community... and how could I rebuild my life in a way that lined up with those aspirations?

Somewhere around Day 8, I started treating "finding a job" as my new full-time job. Because while the severance was helpful — and I'll forever be grateful for those three months of breathing room — life was still expensive. Babies were expensive. Groceries were expensive. And it all seemed to be getting more and more expensive by the day.

So I hit the ground running.

But here's what no one tells you: Job hunting is weirdly slow.

Like, insultingly slow.

Every day, I was spending hours applying to jobs, following up on those applications, taking interviews, sending thank-you emails, taking second interviews, taking third interviews, getting ghosted, following up again, wondering if I was overqualified, underqualified, or just the wrong flavor of qualified altogether.

I researched and completed certification courses. Rebuilt my writing portfolio. Started networking so hard I thought LinkedIn might tell me to go take a walk. I applied to jobs I was excited about, jobs I was indifferent to, jobs that required relocation to places I had to Google.

It was a blur of ambition and anxiety and absolute radio silence.

There were companies that took three months between interview rounds. Jobs I applied to in July where I didn't hear back until December. Jobs where people told me I was the perfect candidate round after round after round and then... disappeared. Like a reverse magic trick where you pull your own confidence out of a hat and then set it on fire.

Some days, I was weirdly hopeful. Productive. Focused. Other days, I sat on the floor of my (now very clean, very organized) closet and whispered "What am I even doing?" into the hanging sweaters.

And when the job leads slowed down, I got scrappy.

I picked up contract work. Started freelancing again. Formed an LLC just to make it all official, even though I had no clue what I was doing.

I read forums full of desperate internet strangers who swore I could make $500 a day transcribing court depositions or narrating audiobooks or selling original shirts on Etsy. I tried all of it.

I applied for unemployment, which turned out to be a right of passage all on its own. Navigating that system was maddening — confusing forms, endless logins, and a process that seemed designed to wear you down. COBRA was another slap in the face. I went from paying a few hundred dollars a month for health insurance to being quoted more than $1,700. A month. For the same plan.

We cut back. Hard.

No more Instacart. I did every grocery run myself with toddlers in tow and a budget that felt like a dare. No more housekeeper, no more lawn service, no more Target runs that "accidentally" turned into $200 of throw pillows. I became the weed puller. The floor mopper. The budget enforcer. And when I started, I was not good at any of these things.

But over those months, I got good. And we made it work.

Even still, by the end of the year, our six-month emergency fund — the one we'd spent years building — had less than $1,000 left in it.

But we were still standing.

And somehow, through all the chaos, I started to feel something else I hadn't felt in a long time.

Clarity.

Not confidence, exactly. But something sturdier than panic. A quiet, persistent belief that maybe — maybe — this wasn't the end of something.

Maybe it was the beginning.

I Lost My Dream Job — and Found a Better One

Eventually, I started working again.

It's with a company I've admired since the early days of my career — a role that, in hindsight, turned out to be even better than the one I lost. More respected. More potential. The kind of opportunity that makes you realize the thing you thought was a setback might've actually been a launchpad.

I kept up a few small freelancing projects. My LLC? Still running. And now it's not just a temporary solution — it's a whole other income stream. It even comes with tax benefits I wouldn't usually have access to as a full-time employee. (No one told me self-employment came with such sweet write-offs.)

My network? Stronger than ever. Because when you've had to reach out to dozens of people in your industry, sometimes just to say, "Hey, I'm in a weird spot — if you hear of anything, I'd love a lead," you end up building real relationships, not just connections. Ultimately, it's given me new insights and a broader perspective, which is always a positive as a writer and analyst.

My sense of self took a hit in the beginning — absolutely. I felt banged up, bruised, and full of doubt. But not anymore. Now things are clearer. Stronger. I don't tie my worth to a company's ability to keep the lights on. And I know better than to mistake a job — even a great one — for a safety net.

We stress-tested our lifestyle. And we made it through. We cut out the lifestyle creep, realized what was important and what really wasn't, remembered what we actually needed, and learned we could live with a lot less fluff. These days, things are much more stable — and we've only added back what truly makes a difference in our lives. Grocery delivery? Worth it. Housekeeping help? Absolutely. Those are hours we now spend playing with the boys instead of vacuuming the house. But the rest of it, we've mostly left in the past.

And honestly? We've realized we actually prefer living without most of it. It feels lighter. More deliberate. More aligned with that fulfilling version of life I spent so many hours thinking about.

And maybe that's the biggest lesson of all.

Sometimes, the job that changes your life... isn't the one you keep. It's the one you lose.