Unemployed in First Class

On job loss and the illusion of knowing where you’re headed

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On a Friday last July, I left New York City on a jet plane headed toward Los Angeles. A few weeks earlier I was informed that my position was being eliminated, the first time I’d ever been laid off. The year leading up to that point, I became increasingly worried with the worsening economy that something like this would happen. Meetings with my company-mandated mentor toggled between me searching to find absolution that my corporate value was clear, and searching for reassurance that I was safe. After receiving both countless times, probably at my mentor’s exhaustion, two tips were imparted: if it comes to that, it won’t be a surprise because there will be several lead-up meetings to correct behavior or improve output (and luckily my record on both counts was always great if not exemplary); and you shouldn’t be worried unless you arrive to a meeting and HR is unexpectedly in the room. And so those few weeks before my flight, I arrived at the conference room door hearing my mentor and, unexpectedly, the head of HR chatting on the other side.

This notice came during a period where I was trying to somehow attend two birthday celebrations of friends in Los Angeles over subsequent weekends. A work event being scheduled the week in between was forcing me to choose one birthday to fly West, or neither. Now it seemed my calendar had cleared up.

The weeks between being told I was headed for the exit and actually walking through that door were a blur. Damocles sword above my head, I couldn’t think clearly to plan out next steps. My body seemed to take on this confusion and lowered its defenses, allowing me to take on a bad cold that after a week developed into bronchitis. Every day I woke up unable to distinguish between the emotional weight of the cliff ahead from the congestion in my chest. They each pressed down hard, making the deep coughs difficult. But I knew I couldn’t stay in my NYC apartment alone, listening to the sirens and sounds of traffic, on my first day without a job.

So for my last technical day of employment, I booked an early morning flight. Finding a good fare and deciding that I deserved a treat, a first class seat shepherded me across the country and into a new chapter. On the final approach, I put my music library on shuffle and looked out the window as the city came into focus below me, six years of memories pressing up through the smog. The afternoon light came in warm on my right side. Landing in Los Angeles, perfectly scripted, Old Man by Neil Young began. With this beacon of 1970s California classic rock in the background, I pulled out my phone as we taxied to the gate, executed my separation agreement, and so began a new beginning I had not asked to start and had no idea where it would lead.

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When faced with limited options, I can still feel like I’m in control. But if faced with unlimited options after being thrust into change, it feels chaotic and unmanageable. How to know where to begin?

It feels like my typical facade is an unguarded Puck, but this carefully covers a tightly-wound interior world. Starting my career in Congress on Capitol Hill, there’s a feeling of hierarchy created with a simple equation: branch of government + who your boss is + your job = social position. If some staffers can separate a personal sense of worth from their job, I began to view them as intrinsically linked. As I rose through the ranks and over the years, my job seemed to be the only value I contributed to the world. Single with no kids, what else did I have to offer? Now that I became a line item to cross out, the thing that made me feel valuable was found to be not valuable enough to keep.

One of the first things I did after the news of my layoff was to get an anti-anxiety prescription from my doctor. We’d talked about anxiety and depression before, but it never came to this. Even asking felt like defeat. The words came out as a job update first, but she could hear the tension underneath. I knew where that road went; I’d been close enough before to know I didn’t want to go back. The medically-induced emotional mask helps. But it doesn’t change the fact that we are not in control. At best, we create illusions of it.

That’s the real struggle, making a decision to be happy despite the uncontrollables. But what a difference your friends, community, and chosen family can make. That trip to LA, I stayed with dear friends, celebrated the 40th birthday of one, laid by the pool, ate too much, drank too much, went to Palm Springs to celebrate another birthday, and remembered that my value had never been a line item.

Surrounding myself with the people I still carry from a previous version of my life was the best thing I could have done. As I’ve moved from city to city over the years, there are pockets of people across the country with whom I share countless memories. That week in California, I kept thinking of those I’ve added to my extended family tree and everything that’s happened along the way. My secret agent birthday party in Dallas. The bar we used to go to in Washington, D.C. Celebrating a wedding against a backdrop of beachside fireworks in Mexico. The Chicago night we won a presidential election. The night we lost a presidential election and I took my campaign team to a gay bar in downtown LA. Through it all, how lucky we are. How lucky I am.

Last July I made a decision: this layoff, this push, will be the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Listening to Neil Young again while I write this, I’m still finding my path forward.

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