Maybe This Is the Thing

Or maybe it’s just the thing before the next panic attack

When I got laid off last summer, I did what a lot of people do: panic, cry, refresh LinkedIn, and then start freelancing “for now.” With the help of some well-placed friends, I picked up a contract with a firm I liked—steady-ish work, smart people. But it was part-time and not nearly enough to live on.

So, I cobbled together other gigs. Maxed out a couple of credit cards. Leaned on generous friends who reminded me I wasn’t alone, even when my bank account strongly suggested otherwise. Sent out applications. Took interviews that went nowhere.

And I mean nowhere.

I got ghosted by more than a dozen companies—some after multiple rounds of interviews, some after asking for writing samples and strategy pitches. I lost out on roles that were, quite literally, my job before. Roles I could do half-asleep while binging audiobooks and debating whether I’ve hit my protein goal for the day. I kept telling myself to hang in there, that something would click. But after months of rejections, silence, and “we’ve decided to go in a different direction” emails that all sounded eerily the same, I started to wonder if that direction just… didn’t include me anymore.

Then, a few months ago, something shifted. The firm I’d been working with gave me a second project—bigger, faster-paced, and way more demanding. Suddenly, I had a full workload. A real paycheck. Something that felt stable.

I’m actually making enough money.

For the first time since getting laid off, I’m not just scraping by. I’m covering my bills, putting a little aside to chip away at debt, and not bracing for impact every time I swipe my card at Trader Joe’s. There’s no frantic Googling of “side hustles that don’t involve talking to people.” No vague plan to sell foot pics. Just contract work—my work—paying the bills.

I’ve spent so much time trying to reach something stable that I never stopped to think about what I’d do if I actually got there. But now I’m here—earning enough to live on, save a little, and build a life that doesn’t feel like it’s held together by duct tape and dread.

And instead of immediately panicking about what comes next, I’m trying to sit with the idea that this might be what comes next. Not a stepping stone. Not a placeholder. Not a temporary fix until I land something full-time with a 401(k), bean bag chairs, and branded hoodies. Just… my actual life.

What if this is the thing?

Of course, that thought is quickly followed by: But what if it all disappears?

What if the contract ends?
What if the rug gets pulled?
What if I just got comfortable at the exact wrong time?

That’s the part that gets me. Not the work itself—I like the work. I like the autonomy. I like that I can hit the gym in the morning and not feel guilty about it. I like that I can work with my cat in my lap, drink the good coffee, and skip the part where I pretend to care about someone’s calendar color-coding system.

And now that I’m working full-time hours, I’ll qualify for health benefits at the end of May. I’m about 200 hours away from being eligible for a 401(k), which feels... real. Back to normal. Or at least like I’m inching closer to the kind of stability I used to believe in—even though I know better now.

Because I do know better.

I’ve worked in big tech long enough to see behind the curtain. I’ve had perfect performance reviews and still been laid off. I’ve survived more than a dozen rounds of cuts. I’ve watched entire teams disappear overnight, watched people post carefully worded goodbye messages they didn’t want to write. I know exactly how expendable you are, even when you’re exceeding expectations.

And still—I miss it.

Not the meetings. Not the politics. God no, not the startup bros talking about “synergy.” But the fake safety net. The empty promise of a steady paycheck, a dental plan, and a calendar full of recurring syncs that make it feel like you belong somewhere.

That’s the part that gets me. Not the reality of it, but the pull of what it pretends to be.

This is how they get you.

It’s brutal to work in a field for 15 years and still get told you don’t meet the qualifications. To be overqualified and under-hired. To see jobs posted, then quietly pulled because the role was never going to be filled. The market is cutthroat and broken. Don’t even say the word “tariff” to me. Companies aren’t hiring. They haven’t been. And some of them probably won’t be for a while.

So, no—I don’t know if this is the thing.

But I know the thing I thought I wanted doesn’t want me back. And if I’m being honest, I’m not sure I want it anymore either. I’ve been unhappy in that system for a while. I just didn’t want to admit it—because wanting something else means risking something else.

But maybe that’s what this is: a risk. A recalibration. A quiet refusal to keep waiting for security that never actually existed.

And maybe that’s its own kind of clarity.