Things I’ve learned as I approach my 1 year redundiversary

In last week’s post I wrote about the very beginning of ‘life after redundancy’. You can read it here:https://sarakingwrites.co.uk/who-even-am-i/

As my 1 year redundiversary grows closer, I’ve realised this past year has not just been about losing my job; it’s been about questioning who I am as a woman in my 50s with a 30 year career in the rear view mirror.

It didn’t take me long to figure out that losing my job was (and still is) about so much more than money; it’s a loss of safety (or the illusion of safety that comes with showing up at agreed times and on agreed days in return for being able to put food on the table and a roof over your head). Losing my income felt like someone had shoved me hard through a one-way door and slammed it shut behind me; floundering in the cold, dark streets of unemployment with no coat and no map to get me back home to safety. What was I supposed to do without that monthly pay-check? I had no savings, a huge mortgage, and a rapidly expanding existential dread that filled every corner of my traumatised brain. I was spiralling. I spent far too much time in self-blame for the things I could and should have done better when it comes to money. But hindsight is a beautiful thing of course.

I knew, as a neurodivergent woman, that the odds of me being good with money and planning for the proverbial rainy day were stacked against me. But there was no point beating myself up about it because life as the main breadwinner with 3 kids, a husband trying to build his own business, and the financial commitment of a huge mortgage meant there was no spare cash. By the time the official redundancy notice landed in my inbox, I’d already amassed a fairly sizeable debt (which I naively thought I would easily pay off with the next bonus – HAH!). My terrible relationship with money was already entrenched, I’d just spent a lifetime with my head in the sand, secure in the knowledge that my job was solid, and anyway, I’d never had an issue getting a job before. Not once had I struggled with that. After all, I’d got a great education and an even better reputation as a valuable employee. My extensive network would surely swoop in to save me at this point? Oh what a wake-up call that was! The thing is, when times are tough and belts are being tightened, most people lucky enough to still have a job are trying to hang onto them by their fingernails. Yes of course there was sympathy for those of us on the other side of the employment fence, but with the global economy tanking, it was naive of me to think help was coming any time soon. The problem was that during the past several years while I’d had my head in the sand, the world of work had been slowly turning to sh*t and I’d done nothing to update my skills for the new world of work.

I was now faced with the apocalyptic combination of being 1) female 2) in my 50s 3) working in the hard-hit consumer sector 4) living in a post-Brexit, post-Covid bat-shit economy where whole sectors were being annihilated by AI, and the cost of living was (and still is) skyrocketing. I’ve lived through a fair amount of economic turmoil in my 55 years on this planet, but somehow this felt very different and much more threatening. My job (and income) was pretty much the only thing that made me feel secure and independent.

You might wonder why I mention things that are so far out of my personal control? The answer is simple; because all of this global turmoil only served to exacerbate my underlying feelings of insecurity in the wake of losing my job. Not only was my personal economy in shreds, but the global economy wasn’t faring much better either, and this all-encompassing unease tore at a deep wound in my psyche, even if I didn’t quite realise it yet. Humans crave security and belonging. It’s a fundamental requirement according to Maslow’s hierarchy of needs:

Being part of the worker tribe was fundamental. And I had been unceremoniously cast out.

That deep psychological safety wound ripped open by losing my job? I’m now certain it was as a result of being in foster care as a baby / toddler over a period of about 18 months, on and off. I wrote about why this happened here: https://sarakingwrites.co.uk/ripples-of-post-partum-psychosis/

I’m no psychologist, but I’ve done enough reading and research over the past few years to realise that when your start in life is rocky, it’s hard to recover and get on a better path without proper support.

I was born in 1970 to older parents (Mum was 44 and Dad was 50. At the time, this was considered grandparent age) who never discussed emotional issues; they just ‘got on with it’. Oh how misguided this was. I was recently on holiday with both my sisters (who are 21 and 22 years older than me). Now in their late 70s, it was clear from the conversations we had while together that the wounds of our shared past had not been healed. This had affected everyone, not just me. They both agreed our parents should have told me about my foster care once I was old enough to understand — and ideally — supported me through it. At the very least, they should have acknowledged this major chapter in our lives; it must have been abundantly clear to them that I was a traumatised child. If this sounds like I’m laying blame for my life at their door, I’m not. This is only part of a much bigger story. When you grow up wondering how you fit into the family unit, or if you even fit at all, then your life is based on a foundation made of sand with insecurity and loss of safety for your bedfellows.

Back to being shoved out of the door into the cold, dark streets of unemployment. It’s not too much of a stretch to see the connection between losing my job and my early childhood trauma.

Aged 55, it’s not too late for me to try to heal the wounds of the past. In a way, I’m actually glad the redundancy has shone a light on my tumultuous internal world, because acknowledgement is the first step towards healing and moving forwards with my next chapter.

This Substack is helping me give a voice and comfort to that toddler caught up in a maelstrom that sent ripples across so many lives.

Much love,

Sara

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