What to say to someone who’s been laid off

Like me, for example

I was one of the 1,250 people who lost their jobs at DoorDash last week. It was a Wednesday morning, and I was in my multitasking-mom mode—filling up water bottles, waiting for the toast to pop, one eye on the nearly-brewed coffee pot—when I scanned my work email. Two new emails, the first from the CEO, Tony Xu, with the subject line, “Changes to our DoorDash team.” I thought something like, too bad, some people must have been let go. Maybe some corporate folks I’d never met. Not me. I’d only been officially on staff for a couple of months. And it was going great!

Then my eye snagged on the subject line of the email stacked right above it: “Your employment with DoorDash.” Huh? Mine? I opened the email and words started jumping out at me: regret to inform, last day, release agreement, severance, difficult news. (Honestly, rereading the email to quote from it is still difficult.)

I shrieked and ran upstairs, past my confused children to the bathroom where my husband was drying his hair. “I think I just got laid off!” I shouted, to be heard over the hairdryer.

It’s very confusing, getting laid off. You would think it would be straightfoward. The words are clear. But it takes a while for your brain to catch up to the news, or that’s true for my brain, anyway. 

When I got laid off from my job as Travel Editor at Food & Wine, I remember asking my boss, Dana, whether I should keep my lunch plans. I’d temporarily lost the ability to make basic decisions. 

A job is not just a job, it’s a specific set of duties and activities that structure a day. So getting laid off is not just one change—you lost your job—it’s a thousand small ones. Bit by bit, you realize that you no longer have to attend that lunch, or take that meeting, or return that email. (Sorry, you can’t return that email because you were just locked out of email.) 

I came back downstairs, where the boys still sat, confused. I told them that I lost my job, but that it would all be okay, and there was nothing to worry about. “Ah,” said Charlie. “I thought you had ordered that mug and it was like $1,000.” (A few minutes prior to checking my email/shrieking, Charlie had showed me his school photo and asked if we could order the mug with his picture on it. Kids are funny.)

Later that day, once I was alone in the house, I sat on an uncomfortable step in the middle of the stairway for a while. I felt unmoored, off-balance. A stair somehow made more sense than a chair. 

So what is the right thing to say to me in this altered state? What should you say to someone who was just laid off?

A primary feeling is one of sudden forced solitude. A quiet, sad loneliness has replaced the usual industriousness. I’m here to tell you that it is better to say something, even if you don’t know what to say. The more people who say something, the less alone I feel. 

Having just been laid off from a remote job, I was literally alone. My boss did get right on the phone with me; she was surprised and upset, which helped. And many coworkers emailed or messaged me over LinkedIn, each message outrageously appreciated. 

Last time around, when I got laid off from a desk job, I was surrounded by coworkers, a few of which had also lost their jobs. I was not alone, but I felt it while walking down the halls, past people who didn’t know what to say. One person whom I’d been close to studiously avoided my gaze, as if my condition was contagious. I felt like a ghost in the halls.

I will always remember the kindness of the people who looked me in the eye and said something compassionate. I don’t remember what any of them said, except for one person, a male, who said, “I bet you’re thrilled to be spending more time with that adorable baby.” I don’t need to explain why this is problematic, do I? 

Let me amend my earlier statement: It’s ALMOST ALWAYS true that it’s better to say something than to say the wrong thing. But really, that’s about the only wrong thing I can think of.  

Oh, also, don’t ask too many questions: How did this happen? What’s going on at that company? What’s next for you? I don’t even know whether or not I should keep my lunch plans, never mind strategic next career steps. When I told family members, I explicitly asked them to hold their questions, that I didn’t feel equipped to answer any.

And just one more do-not before I get into the dos: Don’t be too chipper, too eager with an “everything happens for a reason.” 

Here are the best nine words you can say: This sucks. You are awesome. How can I help?

If that feels too long, these two words work in a pinch: This sucks. 

Those simple messages act to combat the shame that I know I shouldn’t be feeling, and mostly am not feeling, but that still creeps up unannounced. Every person who reaches out makes me feel less ashamed.

There’s a section in my book about the perceived awkwardness of writing a heartfelt note, how it’s the greatest barrier to writing impactful gratitude letters. I spoke to a social scientist who studies this very thing—the impact of gratitude letters and the perceived awkwardness people feel before sending them. The upshot of his research is this: People overestimate the awkwardness of a gratitude letter, and they underestimate its impact. 

Perceived awkwardness gets in the way of being human when it matters. If someone is going through something hard—if they lost a job or a loved one or a pregnancy—that’s your moment to connect. It’s your chance to be human. You might say the wrong thing, but that’s okay, because it’s better to say the wrong thing than nothing. (Exception: Telling a mother she should be relieved she lost her job because she has adorable kids.)

An old colleague called me the day he heard, telling me how awesome he thinks I am and floating an idea about a potential collaboration. Remember phone calls? This was such a welcome one, and it made such a difference in my day.

My father-in-law sent this wonderful email. I give you permission to copy and paste down to the subject line: “It stinks.”

So sorry to hear about your rotten news. When I heard about the layoffs during the week, I got a queasy feeling and was horrified when it was confirmed. Tech-land is in a weird spot right now.

You're way too talented to be out of work for long, but knowing that gets you just so far.

If you’ve been reading my newsletters, you know this year has been a transitional one for me. (For so many people I know, as well. Maybe for you?) 

In this April newsletter, I talked about how 2022 I was coming out of my book year and into the great unknown, and how transitions are hard but so important and ultimately beautiful. This is a snippet from that email.

I keep thinking about Life is in the Transitions by Bruce Feiler; I listened to the audiobook. Feiler interviewed more than 100 people about how they coped with major life changes, “lifequakes,” as he called them, and he started noticing a pattern: Transitions are where the defining, positive parts of a life occur. He tells story after story about how the hardest times in a person’s life are where they find their purpose, or their partner, or a life-changing hobby. So, while a transition is happening it is difficult (and takes longer than you expect), in retrospect you often look back and feel grateful for it.

By September, I had successfully transitioned out of that post-book-year funk and into this new job, as I announced in this newsletter. Yay! Transition complete. And then in October, in this newsletter, I reflected on the time between Food & Wine and this job, listing all the disparate things I did in those intervening years.

It’s so tempting to feel like you’ve reached a resolution. Like you’re past the hard part and squarely in a new chapter. But resolutions aren’t guaranteed, and you can’t know how long a life chapter is until you’re past it.

So, apparently, I am still in a career transition. (Know anyone hiring a content marketing manager or editorial director? Send ’em my way!) Another thing Bruce Feiler said about transitions is that they are, without fail, longer and harder than anyone anticipates. 

The night I got laid off, I had a Zoom call to attend—a yoga class in Jersey had chosen my book for their first-ever book club. Those women were so kind, asking me great questions and telling me how much they loved the book. They shared their plans for letters they wanted to write. I caught my own eye on the Zoom and was surprised to find a crinkly-eyed smile.

I have a message for myself, and for you, if you’ve recently been laid off: You are not your job. Your job is not who you are. It can feel that way, in New York City, surveying the tall buildings filled with decision makers, eavesdropping on people at my workspace talking about “cash flow management” and “go to market” and “accounting principles” and “top of funnel.” (Literally just transcribing my neighbor’s call right now. Don’t sit next to a writer if you don’t want to be quoted.)

A job that provides stability and satisfaction is a worthy goal, but that’s just one aspect of a rich life.

My friend Laura and I were at dinner earlier this year, and we got into a big life conversation. (Love those.) She said, “What I’m trying to build is a rich life.” And that means something different to everyone. For me it means making time for creativity. It means going on adventures with my kids. It means prioritizing my marriage. It means making (and keeping) plans with friends. It means picking up the phone when my parents call. It means soaking up and appreciating this beautiful city I’m so lucky to live in.

All of those aspects of my life, they didn’t disappear with one email. I’m lucky to have a strong foundation to stand on. Lucky, and grateful.

I’ll keep you posted on how this new job search goes. Wish me luck.

xo

Gina