“I Lost My Job, and I Don’t Know Who I Am Without It”
“It wasn’t just a job. It was my structure, my identity, my rhythm. I knew who I was when I had that title, that routine, that purpose. Now I wake up and feel like I’m floating, unmoored. People tell me to see it as an opportunity—but right now, it just feels like a collapse.”
Dear Adrian,
You’re not just grieving a job—you’re grieving a sense of self. That’s what I hear in your words, even if no one else around you is saying it plainly. In a world that constantly tells us to hustle, define ourselves by output, and package our worth in terms of roles and results, losing a job can feel like vanishing.
It’s not just income or routine or health insurance—it’s identity, legitimacy, and belonging. That’s what often goes unspoken.
People mean well when they say things like “You’ll bounce back” or “This could be the start of something new.” But when you’ve just been unanchored from something that shaped your days, your worth, and your place in the world, optimism can feel more like denial than comfort.
The truth is, for many people, work is the way we make sense of ourselves. Not just in terms of career goals, but emotionally. It gives us milestones. It gives us a place to go, a reason to get dressed, a way to explain ourselves at parties. It fills the hours. It structures the week. It keeps anxiety from spilling into every quiet moment. And it offers a kind of shorthand: I do this, therefore I am someone.
So when it’s taken away—especially suddenly, or unjustly, or without closure—it can feel like freefall. And if you’ve always been responsible, always showed up, always tried to earn your keep, then being cut loose can feel like a kind of betrayal. Not just by the company, but by the unspoken contract you thought you had with the world: If I work hard, I’ll be safe. If I contribute, I’ll be valued.
When that proves false, it shakes more than your résumé.
It shakes your reality.
It makes sense, then, that you’re not just updating your LinkedIn. You’re asking deeper questions—ones that don’t have quick answers: Who am I if I’m not productive? What is my worth when I’m not being paid for it? Do I even have a purpose without a title attached?
These are not small questions.
They’re soul-level.
And they deserve time.
Because in the wake of job loss, what you’re experiencing is a kind of identity limbo. You’re no longer who you were. But you’re not yet sure who you’ll become. And in that space—in that messy, unmapped middle—it’s so easy to feel shame.
Shame whispers that maybe this means something about you.
That maybe you weren’t good enough, or stable enough, or successful enough.
Even when your rational mind knows the circumstances—layoffs, restructuring, poor leadership, budget cuts—your emotional world might still carry the weight as if it were a personal failing.
But it’s not.
The system is not designed to hold us with care. It rarely offers a soft landing. And yet we internalize its harshness as self-worth.
So let me say this plainly: You are not your job. You are not your paycheck. You are not your productivity.
But it’s okay if it still feels like you were.
That’s how deep the conditioning goes.
You are allowed to grieve. Not just the position, but what it represented. The version of yourself who felt stable, secure, necessary. The future you thought you were walking toward. The sense of pride, or normalcy, or rhythm that work gave you.
Grief doesn’t always look like crying. Sometimes it looks like numbness. Or disorientation. Or scrolling job boards at 2 a.m. not because you’re ready, but because you’re terrified of feeling untethered.
If that’s where you are, it’s okay.
You don’t have to rush into reinvention.
You don’t have to optimize this pain.
You just have to let yourself be here long enough to name what’s been lost—fully—so that when you do start building again, it’s from truth, not fear.
This might be the first time in a long time that you’ve had to face yourself without a role to hide behind. That’s vulnerable terrain. And also fertile.
Because in the absence of imposed identity, there’s space for something more honest to emerge.
But only if you’re willing to let yourself be unfinished.
In the days ahead, you might feel pressure to figure it all out quickly. Friends or family might ask, “What’s next?” or encourage you to jump into the next thing. But just because movement is possible doesn’t mean it’s always wise. Especially when your spirit is still catching its breath.
What would it look like to pause, even slightly?
Not to stay stuck, but to actually hear what this moment is trying to say?
Sometimes, losing a job is a devastation.
Sometimes, it’s liberation in disguise.
Often, it’s both.
And the hardest thing is sitting in that in-between space—before you know what this will become.
You don’t have to know yet.
You only have to be honest.
And being honest might sound like: I feel lost. I feel afraid. I don’t know what comes next. But I know I’m still here.
That’s the beginning of self-trust.
That’s the ground beneath identity.
Adrian, you were someone before this job. And you’ll be someone after it.
What’s shifting now isn’t your value.
It’s your vantage point.
Let this moment be the start of a deeper kind of clarity—not about what job you’ll have next, but about how you want to feel when you show up in the world again.
You’re allowed to take your time.
You’re allowed to grieve and rebuild at once.
And you’re still whole, even when the system treats you like you’re disposable.
Don’t mistake this pause for disappearance.
You’re still here.
And that matters.
–RJ