I still wake up at 7:15 a.m. Not because I have a meeting. Or a commute. Or a list of deliverables that’s longer than a CVS receipt. I’m up early because something about lying in bed while my corporate counterparts clock in makes me feel like I’m behind, even if there’s no race I’m actively running.
The day kicks off with the usual: matcha, oatmeal, a spin on the Peloton, and a shower. But then? Stillness. No Slack pings. No check-ins. No one asking for a “quick sync” to “circle back” so we can get our “ducks in a row.” Just me, refreshing LinkedIn, wondering if today is the day a recruiter cannonballs into my DMs like Ron Burgundy.
I launched this column five years ago as a mid-level marketing manager in Seattle — corporate’s middle child, navigating microaggressions, vague feedback, and vibes that often felt… off. I wrote about working through a pandemic, watching my well-meaning white colleagues bumble through a so-called racial reckoning, and climbing org chart rungs while staying woke to the wonkiness of upper management.
Back then, I wrote as The Only Black Guy in the Office. Now? I’m still him, but there’s no office at all — unless you count the one in my spare bedroom.
For the first time in a long time, I’m unemployed. There, I said it.
I used to pray for times like this, imagining being unshackled from the chains of recurring standups, performance reviews, and a 27-tab document named “Final_FINAL_V3_(1).” I’d see myself rewatching The Boondocks episodes on a random Tuesday afternoon, hitting up local museums during off-peak hours, day-drinking with a pinky pointed toward the clouds.
But since those first couple of weeks post-layoff, the “fun” in “funemployment” has hopped on a paper plane and gone M.I.A. I’m over the midday mimosas and matinees, especially now that I’m fresh out of severance dollars to spend and Severance episodes to binge. My savings and sense of purpose are each trending downward, dawg, without a namaste in sight.
There’s an odd grief that hits the moment your work account passwords go inactive. It’s the coldest closure, like an ex changing the locks while you’re still packing your things. Except here, your belongings are stored in a shared Google Drive and a Slack archive you’ll never access again. I once thought I couldn’t feel any more like an outsider. I was wrong. But that wasn’t the only wake-up call.
Things done changed for this era of job hunters. I’m learning the futility of cold applying, the scams targeting desperate job seekers, the absurdity of stuffing resumes with keywords to appease the bots. Even when I make it past the algorithm-bouncers and land in front of an actual human, I wonder if the HBCU degree I worked so hard for is a reveal that invites bias before I’ve said a word.
The hardest part of this all? It’s not my obsessive clocking of banking apps and job boards, nor the dystopian friend-or-foe role of artificial intelligence in the application process. It’s the identity shift with which I’ve only recently come to terms.
When you’ve spent your entire career out-working self-doubt, imposter syndrome, and perfectionism, being unemployed feels like failure, even when it’s not. Doesn’t matter if it’s due to a layoff, a budget cut, or a “strategic realignment.”
For years, my job was more than a source of income and fodder for my therapist. It was where I could be a rockstar in one conference room and a firefighter in the next. A place I could lift up others who looked like me and, when necessary, check those who didn’t.
If I’m keeping it a bean, it was validation.
Now, with no decks to compile or KPIs to hit, I’ve had to sit in that stillness. I’ve had to create the structure in my days that I once dreaded. I’ve had to convince myself that the “you’re too talented to be in the market for long!” sentiments shared by friends and peers are sincere.
This column has always been a pressure release valve — a space to process what it means to be Black and corporate and exhausted. I didn’t realize how much I’d need that outlet again. Maybe even more now than before.
So I’m brushing off the cobwebs and writing again. To make sense of this moment. To connect with folks who are navigating the same in-between. And to remind myself, and maybe you too, that being without a job doesn’t mean being without value.
The matcha’s iced, but the tea is still hot. Sip slow.