On being made redundant
After facing redundancy at work, I'm surprisingly happier and excited for what lies ahead!
A few weeks ago at work, I got called into a short-notice meeting with my boss’s boss. When someone from HR joined the call, I knew something was afoot. Within minutes I was being told that I was “at risk of redundancy”.
It’s a funny word, isn’t it, redundant? Like an appendix, perhaps, or a no-smoking sign on a plane. It’s something we don’t need anymore, a hangover from an earlier period. It’s certainly not something you want to describe yourself as.
Business is business, though, and these things happen. I could quibble and complain about the strategies and decisions that led to this happening, but ultimately it’s a line on a spreadsheet that needs to be resolved, and who am I to argue with the might of Excel?
I had the chance to jump onto a lifeboat and take another role, and I had the weekend to think it over. But as soon as the alternative was discussed—the quiet exit, the decent pay-off—my mind was already made up.
As the news sank in and I called Maddy to update her, I realised I was supposed to be going to Ted’s primary school that afternoon to help him make a model of Stick Man for a parent/child workshop. I knew my head wasn’t going to be in the right place for such shenanigans, and I also felt a duty to be present for my teammates at work who were rapidly discovering they were in a similar boat to me. I told Maddy I couldn’t be there at school.
How do I explain this?
An unusual day followed: outpourings of emotion, calculations of “runway” and risks, WhatsApp debates and carefree alcohol consumption. When I got home in the evening, my young son told me that he cried when I didn’t come to school to help him with his model, and my heart broke as I tried to explain to him why I wasn’t there, and felt myself becoming every bad parent in a movie who doesn’t see their kid’s little league baseball game or dance recital (whatever either of those things are).
Even sharing the news was weird: it’s strangely embarrassing to tell people you’ve been made redundant. People don’t know what to say, they feel awkward, worried, suddenly thinking about how precarious their own position might be, maybe. For me, I tried to “own” it by explaining that I chose it; that this wasn’t something that just happened to me. But it’s not true, is it? I woke up that morning and didn’t see it coming.
But I’m happy. Happier than I’ve been all year. When I woke up, the morning after, slightly hungover, I yawned and stretched, then the realisation of what transpired the previous day hit me. But the shock quickly faded and I almost physically felt the relief as a weight lifted from my shoulders. I’d been unhappy all year. I’d carried stress and frustration around with me like suitcases laden with bricks, unable to put them down so I could play with the children and be with my partner.
Now it felt like I’d just thrown those suitcases to the bottom of the canal, and was standing on the path watching them sink, with gladness in my heart. I didn’t—and don’t—know what’s down that path I’m walking, but I don’t have to carry those weights anymore, either.
Finishing on a high
So here I am: redundant. But happy. I’ve spent this month so far doing nothing, besides checking in on my team and making plans for January. My CV’s in good shape, my network is strong, and my motivation is higher than it’s been for years.
So whatever the facts of the matter tell me, the reality is this: I’m not redundant. Nobody is. An organisation might not need you, might not afford you, might not have a plan for you. But you’re more than your work. And I’m not ashamed, afraid, unhappy or uncertain. This is going to be really great for me. And I’m excited to travel that path.
Mini-feels this week
They call me the gift-giver
It’s the last day of nursery this year for kid #2 and I wanted to give the wonderful staff a gift to say thank you. I grabbed a card and envelope from the box on the shelf at home, and headed to the supermarket to buy some chocolates.
When I reached the nursery car park I pulled out the card and a pen to write my thank you note, only to discover that Ted had already written a message in it to a kid at school. Frustrated at myself, I picked up the box of chocolates instead to take in. I then spotted an ugly crack in the plastic case which looked as though a dog had tried to chew the container.
I had no choice but to continue with my plan, so armed with these two inadequate expressions of gratitude, I did my best awkward Hugh Grant impression and handed over the broken gifts to the laughing staff while I bundled my daughter out of there post-haste. Lesson learned.