on misfortune

what it was like to be laid off and to tell people about it

Instead of a laundry list reflection of 2025, I want to talk about misfortune. How auspicious for the new year, I know! But one thing I’ve noticed is that misfortune can feel like getting sick. Others may offer empathy, but that empathy may feel limited in time or depth because a) they have their own lives to get to, perhaps justifiably so, and b) they simply aren’t living through the pains we’re living through, so their response, even if well-meaning, cannot fully acknowledge the nuance or extent of experience we’re having. Of course, that sort of empathy is well-meaning and appreciated, and it’s sometimes the most we can ask for, as we tackle obstacles we can only overcome with our own agency and determination. On the other hand, I’ve noticed how some people lean away altogether from misfortune shared with them: because discussing sad and bad things makes them uncomfortable, or because it makes them consider the fragility of their own systems, or because it renders them sheepishly self-conscious of their own fortune, or because it reminds them that their fortune is a thin illusion, that everyone is one unfortunate step from from their own pitfall of doom in some way.

This is not to say that I was entirely doomed this past year. In fact, I had an abundance of happinesses in the year of 2025! From dancing in Vienna during ball season, to filming dance covers in Seattle, to traipsing through the cliffs of Iceland, I saw much of the world and of people I care about. At the same time, I had one large misfortune shake up my life and thus a lot of the goal-setting and expectations I had at the start of 2025.

And? Yep, I was laid off. To stroke my ego, let me walk you through it. I had just come back from a family trip to Paris with a pit stop in London to see friends, and I stopped at my family home to rest for a few days before returning to Seattle.

But, the morning of the day I was supposed to fly back to Seattle, I was happily sitting in a cafe with my mom, tapping away at some work when a mysterious meeting invite popped up on my calendar. When I joined the meeting punctually at noon, I was put into a webinar-mode Teams call, the sort where you can’t show your video or face or type anything into the chat, along with a couple of other anonymous attendees (truly, it said Attendee 1, 2, and so on). You can deduce the rest.

After that, I pushed my flight back a day to compose myself, landed in Seattle at five a.m. of the last day I was to be back in the office, cried in the shower, put on a dress I got in Paris, and went to say goodbye in-person. I had considered not flying back to Seattle at all and bidding goodbye remotely, but I knew that for myself, I needed to confront my reality face-to-face. And honestly? I’m glad I did. I was able to protect my dignity and express gratitude for the relationships I cared about and developed during my time there.

The aftermath was the harder part: this misfortune was going to dog my every step until I found my “next steps,” which could’ve taken months — even years — in this economy. I was definitely experiencing a new flavor of sadness that I hadn’t felt before: a mix of frustration and embarrassment and existentialism and self-pity, with a sense of injustice that I didn’t get to prove myself, flare-ups of envy whenever people mildly complained about work (at least you have a job!), and the stress that I’d have to strategically shield or thoughtfully frame my misfortune if it was ever addressed in public.

It is indeed burdensome to carry around misfortune, especially one that you’re ashamed of or feels taboo. I definitely had to do mental calculations around fibbing, because it seemed easier to just lie about my job status rather than ruin the vibe at a party by inducing obligatory I’m so sorry! panic in others and obligatory don’t worry about it!’s from me even though I was, indeed, a cesspool of worry about it – when all we had signed up for, by RSVP’ing to this party, was to abide by and relish in the comforting norms of silly small-talk topics.

When I did eventually start telling people, I realized that other people’s reception to my misfortune sometimes added extra weight to this burden. It was unexpectedly interesting to observe how people responded to my news. Some folks I thought would express kindness or generosity noticeably didn’t, and some folks I didn’t expect much from, expressed much more than I expected.

This is when I get on my high horse and rant a bit about human decency. I was quite shocked, actually, to be met with awkward silences; with the intentional omission of obligatory, performative offers of assistance and empathy; with the occasional dismissiveness and banter about joblessness. Truly, the least you can do is to offer a referral (even though you don’t mean it, even though your job doesn’t offer referrals, even though referrals don’t have much weight in lots of circles nowadays, and even if neither of us follow up on the offer)! So, on top of the existential crisis of my next career move, I also had to manage the sting of all these situations (and also doing sooooo many interviews and final rounds to be rejected. It was an emotional rollercoaster of a summer).

Consequently, I noticed that in a society that rewards and applauds the fortunate, we don’t have as good or healthy of a shared language to discuss and respond to the big, bad, and ugly. Success and joy are normalized as straightforward emotions and experiences that society knows how to join in on. You got a new job? Hooray! Want to share a highlight reel of your vacation? So cute! But there’s less unanimity around the public sharing of loss and pain. Even though they are part and parcel of human life, as much as joy is, they often seem like more “private” things that should not be shared with others. And even if we’re surrounded by stolid support, we are still naturally afraid of what others may think or say, because society looks down on unresolved failures and struggles. We fear judgement, dismissiveness, or sheer disinterest in something as vulnerable as our misfortune.

Of course, new norms in our digital and more enlightened age have enabled the sharing of pain and have made expressing authenticity easier. It’s been quite comforting, for instance, to see influencers sharing their journeys with miscarriages, mental health struggles, job losses, and more. But there’s still a performativeness we’re forced to adopt in order to be acknowledged, especially for struggles that seem more “in your control” (even if they aren’t). For example, we generally don’t judge people for sadness about losing their pets, but there seems to be less societal empathy for those expressing mental health challenges without a “here’s what I learned and overcame!” reflection about it.

Happy things we share are also shaped by our urge to perform in society. But for sad things in particular, we often have to frame or obscure them for fear of seeming… weak, discomposed, incompetent. I think of all those layoff posts on LinkedIn expressing bravado and gratitude with a blurb about why they should be hired – thinly veiling the sheer panic and frustration I know they must have been feeling instead. In a group for ex-employees, I saw a (well-meaning) Person A post about Person B’s post on LinkedIn, which was a direct, desperate plea for employment after a year of job-searching. Person A noted that this post wouldn’t help Person B get a job because of its desperation. And unfortunately? I agree – it’s one of the reasons why I didn’t post at all on LinkedIn about my job situation. I didn’t want to muster a fake positive front I was too fatigued to put on, and I knew that if my frustrations subconsciously manifested in my written language, it wouldn’t do me any good on the job market. But it also made me sad to realize my agreement with that sentiment. Sure, maybe Person B, in that post, didn’t say or do what made them the most “employable.” But the root of that post was that, in a world that likes to shame and blame people for their misfortune, their pain was still strong enough to drive them to expose that vulnerability.

Some people argue that people are putting too much of themselves on the Internet these days, like young people posting themselves crying and being sad on TikTok. In some respects, I agree: not everything needs to be seen by the world (I think of couples who publicize their sex life on podcasts, or influencers that digitally document everything about their toddler). But the implication of such videos is that these young people do not feel acknowledged or safe in their sadness in their physical and social life. So, they turn to expressing it online, even if it only offers artificial social comfort. The impact of social media on youth (and adult) isolation is its own behemoth problem on its own, which I won’t tackle here. Still, like the LinkedIn scenario, this reveals how it takes a good amount of pain and desperation to expose yourself like that to the world, to show that you are in need and don’t really know how to handle it or how to go forward. And while others (including myself) sometimes look upon such examples with pity and judgement, I now try to remind myself more often of this point.

Overall, I don’t think we like to need help. We like our egos, we want to feel self-sufficient, independent, and proud, and in healthy environments, we know to ask for help when it would, well, help. But needing help, in the truest sense of the word, can make us feel so disempowered and stripped down such that expressing that need then becomes a very courageous act. Even more courageous, I’d argue, than what society may deem as classically “brave” (take your pick here: a YC bro asking for funding perhaps?).

During my first internship, my company covered my living costs, which left me with more money than I was used to having. I made sure I had cash on me to give to people asking for help. I’ve given people food I purchased, swiped them into the subway for a ride that now costs a ghastly three dollars. I’m not trying to have a holier-than-thou moment, because I’m definitely not helping every person I encounter, or honestly anyone in the grand scheme of things. This could all even be a meta-scheme to feed my own ego, and I know my “misfortune” is a far, far cry from true misfortunes of survival that people are experiencing.

I just know that it’s really hard to expose your misfortune, to show that you need help; and it’s even harder when people you try to reach shield themselves from it – like it’ll become a blight on them too.

Of course, those not “receiving” my misfortune in the ideally courteous way are not the true culprits. My misfortune, at least, was one I had to work out on my own, and it would be misplaced for me to project blame onto parties for acts they didn’t commit, like job rejections or corporate restructuring. I don’t want to dictate how others act or move in the world — after all, we’re all different people with different tendencies (e.g. I’m a bit awkward with offering hugs as a sign of support. Now you know!). And many of us are occupied with dealing with our own misfortunes, big and small, that others don’t know about.

But when we can, it’s a nice human thing to do — to look at someone for a moment, to recognize their vulnerability, to perform a kind gesture, even a silly or ultimately meaningless one. To reciprocate their bid for connection rather than judge them for wanting or needing it.

Witnessing or thinking about misfortune makes us feel uncomfortable because it can remind us how close to it we are – to experiencing it, to perhaps enabling or perpetrating it. So, we eschew it from the realm of possibility and consideration until it one day confronts us. And after that? We’re still funny creatures with selective memories. We don’t like to remember or think of the bad things, and both the good and bad rushes right past us as we direct our attention towards the ever-approaching future. Every time I get sick, I feel awful, but I quickly forget that discomfort when I get back on my feet. Even the sheer triumph I felt when I finally, finally!, got my job offer has faded into the throes and fatigues of everyday work.

For this year, I wish fortune and happiness upon you, for you to achieve your goals and be recognized for your efforts. If misfortune indeed arrives on your doorstep, I hope you are patient and kind with yourself, and that you take courage to go after what you need and want. And if misfortune arrives on someone else’s doorstep, I hope we remember enough of what our own misfortune felt like, or can imagine enough what it could feel like, to help out. To kick it to the curb, to yell at it to get off the doorstep, or at the very least, to push past the scary-looking thing to say to the human at the door, “Hey, this dude sucks, but I can give you a hug or funny Instagram reel or a coffee or home-cooked meal or a hangout or a place to stay for a while or a referral or a heart emoji.” Because at the end of the day, all we’re looking for is a little bit of love, a little bit of hope. Even if that takes shape as an emoji reaction on a LinkedIn (or Substack) post :)

Cover photo by Tahlia Doyle on Unsplash