No meeting. No call. No warning.
Just a quiet message sitting in my inbox like a misplaced note. For a moment, I thought it was a mistake—something sent to the wrong person, or maybe an automated alert. My access to every system remained open. My calendar still showed my meetings. My badge still logged me in. It felt surreal, as if I’d stepped out of my body and was watching my own life glitch.
At first, I froze. I didn’t know if I should ask questions or simply walk away. But something in me wasn’t ready for either. So I did the only thing that felt right in that moment: I stayed present.
I showed up to the virtual meetings I’d already been scheduled for. I listened, contributed, and took notes like I always had. I wasn’t pretending nothing had happened. I wasn’t hoping they’d take me back.
I just needed space—space to understand what I was feeling, what I was losing, and what this sudden shift meant for me.
In those strange, in-between days, I found myself unexpectedly rediscovering my own worth. Each meeting reminded me of the skills I had sharpened, the relationships I had built, the calm professionalism I had developed even in chaos. I realized that my identity hadn’t been taken from me. It had simply been disconnected from a title.
Then, one quiet afternoon, I received a message from the CEO asking why I was still active in the system.
My heart should have raced. Instead, for the first time in days, I felt still. I chose honesty. I told the truth—not emotionally, not dramatically. Just clearly. I explained the email, the confusion, and how I had continued showing up because I wanted to close my time there with clarity and integrity.
What happened next surprised me more than the layoff itself.
The CEO thanked me.
Not out of formality, but sincerely. We ended up having a genuine conversation about communication, respect, and the importance of giving people a proper ending—something rarely acknowledged in the corporate world. There was no blame, just understanding. It became a turning point for both of us.
I didn’t go back to the job. I didn’t ask to.
But I walked away with dignity, not confusion. And that felt like a victory in itself.
From that experience, I learned something I never expected:
Showing up for yourself matters more than any position you hold.
Titles fade. Roles change. Companies restructure. But your character—the way you respond, the grace you choose, the truth you stand in—carries you forward.
A few months later, I found a new opportunity. One that valued presence, communication, and humanity. A place where I didn’t have to prove my worth—it was recognized from the start.
And now, whenever I look back on that strange season of endings and beginnings, I feel gratitude more than anything.
Because now I know:
Every ending carries a lesson. Every uncertainty carries a chance to see yourself more clearly. And sometimes the quietest goodbyes lead to the loudest growth.
