Over the next couple of months, I applied and applied.
I was angry—every single day. I truly believed I got screwed out of my job. I thought I had built a solid relationship with my direct manager. We talked daily—not just about work, but about our personal lives too. So when he gave me the news that I’d be laid off, I was shocked.
He told me I had two weeks left, and that I shouldn’t worry about my workload—just focus on finding another job. He said he’d help in any way he could. When my last day came, he promised we’d keep in touch.
We didn’t.
I reached out a few times after the layoff, just to catch up. I really believed our relationship had gone beyond just work. He only responded once—and even then, it was brief. The other five to seven times I called, he’d text that he was busy and would call me back. He never did.
Now I was mad at him.
Mad that he didn’t fight for me.
Mad that he wasn’t answering my calls.
Mad at the company for putting me in this situation.
I even hoped for their downfall—which is not like me—but that’s where my head was.
I tried to keep in touch with some of my old team members—those I was close to. A few reached out to check on me. They were shocked that I had been let go and gave me a lot of positive feedback. They told me I was one of the better managers they’d had, and that I’d bounce back. Some even gave me job leads.
But despite the kind words, my confidence was at an all-time low. I couldn’t believe them. In my mind, they were just being polite. I didn’t believe I was a good manager.
I came close to landing jobs with two different companies where I had been referred by family. Both roles were in management—different from what I’d done before—but the pay was about a third more than what I used to make. I was ecstatic. I interviewed multiple times for both roles and was convinced one of them was mine.
I even talked to my wife about the opportunities ahead of us, financially.
But I didn’t get either job.
That crushed me. The rejection took what little confidence I had left and wiped it out.
I filed for unemployment. It wasn’t much, but it helped cover groceries. My parents and sister pitched in financially to help keep us afloat. I called my mortgage company and was approved for a temporary program that paused my payments for a few months.
My wife could see what the stress was doing to me. She did everything she could to keep me positive. Even though she tried to hide it, I knew she was struggling mentally too.
She’d been out of work for 10 years as a stay-at-home mom and, like me, had no degree. She started job hunting but ran into the same doubts and limitations I had. Still, she pushed through. She even started a small permanent jewelry business on the side, and the little extra income helped cover some bills.
Shortly after month two, she suggested we do a workout program I had done before—just something to keep our minds busy. I had zero motivation. I didn’t want to do it. But I agreed to do it for her. She was never one to exercise, especially alone, and I knew she needed someone to keep her going.
I wasn’t concerned about my own mental health at that point. I just wanted hers to improve.
Funny enough, as I found out later—she suggested the program not for her but for me.
Neither of us wanted to do it.
But it turned out to be one of the best decisions we could’ve made. That small act—showing up for each other—was the first thing that reminded me we still had control over something.