When redundancy in your 50s kickstarts full life reset mode

In autumn 2024 the curtain closed abruptly on my 30 year sales and marketing career. Of course, there was initial shock and disbelief when the redundancy axe dropped on me out of nowhere. There were angry, terrified tears. And – a few days later – incandescent rage at the injustice of it all. Why me? I thought I’d lost my job. A year later, I can now say it was just the start of a very unintentional, but long overdue full life reset.

I hadn’t realised how much of my identity was tied up in what I did to put food on the table. That innocuous question strangers ask after initial small-talk; what do you do? They don’t mean how I spend my weekends, or how much time I spend trapped in a Netflix vortex. No – they are subtly asking what is my job? What is my contribution to capitalism? But the question was now; who even am I if I don’t log onto the company laptop at 0830 every Monday to Friday?

As someone who’s worked full-time since leaving university, I was suddenly adrift like a small fishing boat pitching violently on a stormy sea. I was no longer part of a team. No longer in daily contact with my (mostly) beloved clients. And – crucially – no longer putting money in the bank. I had been unceremoniously cut off from the humdrum world of the 9-5 I had spent so many years yearning to leave.

The irony of suddenly having all the free time in the world was not lost on me. I used to dream of the day I could get up whenever I wanted to, walk the dog when it suited me, or go for a run in the middle of the day. But now that I could do any one of these things and more, I was cross about it. And so I did what I’m good at – I made myself very busy. Busy-ness dressed up as avoidance. I filled those initial days in a knee-jerk pattern; doing courses (because learning is productive?) and faffing about setting up a freelance website. My long-neglected LinkedIn profile had a major overhaul. Everything was shiny, new and full of promise. Then the redundancy money ran out, and panic set in.

As a woman of 54, I knew it wouldn’t be easy to find another job. And if I’m honest, I’d always yearned to work for myself. On the face of it I had everything I’d ever wanted. So what was the problem? That’s an easy one to answer; I wanted what I now had but on my terms and with a good savings pot. I was utterly furious that control had been taken away from me. Or at least the semblance of control, because let’s face it, when you’re working for someone else you never really have control do you? I thought I was immune to redundancy. It never really crossed my mind I might be disposable. I don’t think that was arrogance, I’m not that way inclined. More like naivety.

And it’s this loss of control that lies at the root of my post-redundancy turmoil. As someone who spent a good chunk of her very early years – from toddler to young child – in foster care, I have lived under the long shadow of losing control yet craving connection my whole life. This shows up in so many ways; hyper-independence in personal relationships and the absolute non-negotiable need to earn my own money. I spent a number of years as a single parent after my first marriage ended. Latterly I’ve been the main breadwinner in my second marriage, confident that I could always take care of myself without having to relinquish territory to my husband (subtext: because he might abandon me too). Lack of trust in others runs deeper than I’d realised. It seems logical to me that I would want to be in charge because I’d learned as a baby that you can’t rely on others. It’s a really strange situation to be in when your subconscious craves connection and safety, but your conscious acts in almost entirely the opposite way.

But back to that question of who am I.

Identity is such a complex concept. 10 years ago the words “I’m a mum and I work in a design agency” would have easily rolled off my tongue when asked what I do. But what am I supposed to say now? My kids are all grown up and I’m jobless. Oh, and the icing on the mid-life cake is – well – I’m a woman over 50. My identity has done a complete 180 in the year since my P45 landed in my inbox. Of course, I’m still – and always will be – a mum. But what else am I now?

Last week I tried to answer this question while chatting to next door’s elderly father over the fence. He was clipping the shrubs and I was in a power struggle with my unhinged dog. What started as polite neighbourly conversation ended with me making my excuses, tears prickling hotly behind my eyes. I’d ended up in the usual loop over oversharing, and I’d now pretty much told the poor man my life story. No wonder he looked like he wanted to escape. In describing the events of the last year (redundancy, selling the family home to downsize, moving to a new area, trying to start a freelance business) I quickly realised that I was very, very far from over this whole redundancy thing.

In the past year, my superficial identity has been ripped to shreds. I’ve been forced to ask deeper questions of myself than I’d bargained for. I have a blank canvas and can be whoever I want to be. Yet without the guardrails of employment and home ownership, this feels like a vast scary tundra rather than an exciting place to be. I’m slowly trying to piece together the fragments of who I am, one piece at a time. This Substack is helping me to do that.

I don’t have all the answers yet. But the further in the rear-view mirror my employment is, the more adjectives I’m gathering.

If any of the above resonates with you, I’m sharing my experiences in a Masterclass on November 7th. You can grab your place here:

I’d love to hear from you if you’ve been through a similar experience.

My DMs are always open.

Much love,

Sara x